THE   THOUSAND    EUGENIAS 


THE 

THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

</lND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

MRS.  ALFRED  SIDGWICK 

AUTHOR  OF 

'CYNTHIA'S  WAY,'  'THE  GRASSHOPPERS,' 
'THE  INNER  SHRINE,'  ETC. 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO. 

91    AND  93   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW   YORK 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 


All  rights  reserved 


SRLF 
URL 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

THE  THOUSAND  EUGENIAS I 

ANNE  AND  THE  ANARCHIST 2O2 

"THE  LAST  STRAW" 233 

A  SENSIBLE  WOMAN 253 

AUNT  THOMASINA 264 

AN  ICONOCLAST 273 

A  SKY  SIGN 289 

WALL-PAPERS 300 

MRS.  SPETTIGUE 310 

WITH  THE  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON 321 


THE    THOUSAND    EUGENIAS 


THE  schoolroom  was  deserted  because  an  uncle,  who 
had  come  to  Bayswater  Square  on  a  few  days'  visit, 
had  taken  the  children  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  for 
the  afternoon.  He  had  not  invited  Miss  Ferrers,  their 
governess,  to  join  the  party;  and  after  she  had  tidied 
the  schoolroom  and  had  done  various  out-of-door  com- 
missions for  the  mistress  of  the  house,  she  returned 
to  her  kingdom  on  the  fourth  floor  and  sat  down  to 
rest.  Next  day  she  was  going  to  the  seaside  with  the 
family,  and  she  still  had  to  pack  for  herself  and  the 
children ;  but  she  was  too  tired  to  begin  directly.  The 
hot  weather  had  come  with  a  rush,  and  she  had  been 
on  her  feet  for  hours.  Mrs.  Hunter  and  her  grown-up 
daughters  had  agreed  at  lunch-time  that  they  were 
not  inclined  to  move,  so  Amabel  Ferrers  had  been 
obliged  to  move  for  them  from  shop  to  shop  and  back 
to  the  house  again,  until  her  little  body  was  aweary 
of  this  great  world. 

It  was  not  agreeable  to  live  in  Mrs.  Hunter's  house 
as  governess,  and  Amabel  would  have  left  long  ago 


2  THE   THOUSAND.   EUGENIAS 

if  she  had  known  how  to  get  food  and  shelter  else- 
where. But  a  governess  is  not  a  cook  with  the  market 
at  her  command,  and  Amabel  knew  that  if  she  threw 
up  this  engagement  she  might  be  reduced  to  any  straits 
before  she  found  another.  Her  story,  so  far,  was  the 
commonest  story  in  the  world.  Her  parents  had 
brought  her  up  in  idleness  and,  if  they  ever  gave  a 
thought  to  the  future  at  all,  had  taken  for  granted 
that  she  would  marry  in  their  lifetime.  Unfortunately, 
they  both  died  before  she  was  eighteen;  the  mother 
died  after  the  father,  and  left  just  enough  to  pay  for 
her  funeral.  Amabel  was  an  only  child,  and  knew  of 
no  relations  except  an  uncle  who  had  gone  to  Mexico, 
twenty  years  ago,  to  seek  his  fortune.  As  he  never 
wrote  home  she  did  not  know  whether  he  was  dead 
or  alive,  but  she  had  found  an  old  address  amongst 
her  father's  papers,  and  had  written  there  at  a  venture 
some  months  ago.  So  far  no  answer  had  come,  and 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  her  uncle  Michael  was 
dead  or  out  of  reach  and  that  she  was  alone  in  the 
world. 

This  afternoon,  as  she  stared  at  the  sky  and  the 
chimney-pots,  her  thoughts  were  vexatious  and  dis- 
tressing. For  several  days  past  Mrs.  Hunter's  manner 
had  been  more  unpleasant  than  usual,  and  it  would 
be  impossible  to  say  anything  stronger  than  that  of 
any  one's  manner.  Amabel  knew  why  she  was  in 
disgrace.  A  fortnight  ago  there  had  been  a  children's 
party  in  the  house,  and  she  had  assisted  at  it,  and 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  3 

Mr.  Sheringham  himself  had  showed  her  marked  at- 
tention. No  one  else  would  have  mattered  quite  so 
much.  But  Mr.  Sheringham !  the  great  financier ! 
who  was  invited  a  dozen  times  before  he  came  once! 
who  was  to  marry  Georgina  Hunter,  if  only  he  could 
be  made  to  see  it!  who  was  so  eligible  that  Georgina 
hardly  expected  to  pull  it  off,  but  wished  she  might, 
because  Mr.  Sheringham  was  so  good-looking;  while 
Mr.  Mendoza,  the  other  string  to  her  bow,  was  fat 
and  had  little  pig's  eyes !  That  children's  party  had 
been  a  fiasco  from  Georgina's  point  of  view,  and  there 
was  worse  to  follow.  On  Sunday  last,  Mr.  Shering- 
ham had  met  Miss  Ferrers  at  morning  service,  and 
had  walked  home  with  her  and  the  children;  and  the 
day  before  yesterday  he  had  actually  found  her  in 
Kensington  Gardens  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  had 
stayed  talking  to  her  for  nearly  half-an-hour.  On 
both  occasions  the  children  had  carried  the  news  home, 
and  Mrs.  Hunter  had  told  Amabel  that  her  conduct 
was  forward  and  unladylike,  and  that  if  the  offence 
was  repeated  she  must  take  the  consequences. 

This  very  afternoon  the  offence  had  been  repeated. 
She  had  happened  to  be  in  the  drawing-room  taking 
instructions  about  some  errands,  and  Mr.  Sheringham 
had  called,  and  he  had  looked  at  her  in  the  most 
friendly  way  and  asked  her  if  she  was  going  to  East- 
bourne with  the  family.  When  she  admitted  that  she 
was,  he  said  he  thought  of  running  down  there  himself 
for  a  few  days ;  and  when  she  hurried  out  of  the  room 


4  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

he  got  up  and  opened  the  door  for  her.  She  wished 
he  would  leave  her  alone.  She  was  a  moth  and  he 
was  a  star,  and  she  was  a  sensible  moth  with  no  desire 
to  singe  her  wings.  She  would  not  let  her  thoughts 
dwell  on  him ;  but  her  thoughts  dwelt  with  foreboding 
on  Miss  Georgina  Hunter's  manner  when  she  met  her 
on  the  stairs  just  now. 

The  irruption  into  the  room  of  a  red-headed  page 
boy,  with  a  message  from  Mrs.  Hunter,  made  her 
jump. 

"  Mrs.   'Unter  wants  you  downstairs,"  he  said. 

"  I've  been  out  ever  since  lunch  and  I  haven't  had 
tea  yet,"  said  Amabel,  trying  to  seem  calm  and  indif- 
ferent. "  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Hunter  wants  me  at  once, 
George  ?  " 

"  She  looked  as  if  she  did,"  said  the  boy. 

"  I  wonder  why  tea  is  so  late  ?  " 

"  I  'card  Mrs.  'Unter  tell  Mary  she  needn't  bring 
any  up  'ere  as  the  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  would 
'ave  theirs  out.  Shall  I  sneak  you  up  a  cup  from  the 
kitchen,  Miss  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  no  —  I  can't  wait,"  said  Amabel,  and  she 
ran  downstairs. 

Mrs.  Hunter  sat  in  her  drawing-room  surrounded 
by  lamps  and  silver  photograph  frames  and  frilled 
silk  cushions.  She  was  a  stupid-looking  woman,  with 
a  consequential,  pursed-up  mouth  and  hard,  colourless 
eyes.  She  turned  towards  Amabel  with  an  air  of  dis- 
like and  did  not  ask  her  to  sit  down. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  5 

"  I  am  not  satisfied  with  you,  Miss  Ferrers,"  she 
began.  "  I  have  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  so." 

"  I  am  doing  my  best  for  the  children,"  began 
Amabel. 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  the  children,"  said  Mrs. 
Hunter. 

Amabel  wished  she  had  the  courage  to  sit  down, 
she  wished  she  had  stayed  herself  with  tea,  she  wished 
she  had  been  born  without  a  temper;  and  she  looked 
at  the  lady  and  wondered  why  people  in  fortune's 
good  graces  should  be  so  unkind  to  people  out  of 
fortune's  favor. 

"  Your  behavior  is  most  unbecoming,"  continued 
Mrs.  Hunter. 

"  In  what  way  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  enter  into  details,"  said  Mrs. 
Hunter.  "  The  fact  is,  you  allow  your  head  to  be 
turned.  You  seem  to  think  that  when  you  come  down- 
stairs and  the  gentlemen  who  visit  at  the  house  are 
civil  to  you,  that  you  are  on  an  equality  with  them. 
I  feel  it  my  duty  to  open  your  eyes.  None  of  them 
would  ever  think  of  you  seriously." 

Amabel  did  not  speak,  but  she  could  not  force 
back  the  flush  of  indignant  color  in  her  cheeks  or 
the  anger  that  set  her  mouth  and  flashed  in  her 
eyes. 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  people  who  have  come  down 
in  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter.  "  They  never  want 
to  realize  that  they  have  come  down." 


6  THE  THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"Oh,  but  they  do,"  said  Amabel.  "The  fact  is 
everlastingly  forced  on  them." 

"  Then  you  don't  show  it  in  your  behavior.  Just 
now  when  Mr.  Sheringham  was  here " 

"  I  should  be  glad  if  I  need  never  see  Mr.  Shering- 
ham again,"  cried  Amabel.  "  I  don't  care  about  him." 

According  to  her  lights  at  the  moment  she  spoke 
the  truth.  She  felt  angry  with  Mr.  Sheringham  for 
having  made  matters  worse  for  her  than  they  need 
have  been;  she  felt  angry  with  his  coolness  and  his 
determination  and  with  her  own  helplessness. 

"  What  unladylike  expressions  you  use,  Miss  Fer- 
rers," said  Mrs.  Hunter.  "  It  is  not  necessary  that 
you  should  care  about  Mr.  Sheringham  or  any  one 
else  you  have  the  privilege  of  meeting  in  my  house. 
Mr.  Sheringham  is  a  most  charming  person  and  an 
intimate  friend,  and  it  must  be  painful  for  him  to 
come  here  and  meet  a  young  woman  who  throws 
herself  at  his  head." 

"  I  should  think  his  head  is  fairly  strong,"  said 
Amabel. 

"At  any  rate  I  am  going  to  do  my  duty  an3  stop 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  was  working  herself  into 
a  pretty  passion.  "  Unless  you  can  give  me  a  guaran- 
tee of  better  behavior  for  the  future " 

"  How  can  I  give  you  a  guarantee  that  the  man 
won't  follow  me  to  church  or  find  out  when  I'm  in 
the  Square  with  the  children  ?  "  said  Amabel,  her  anger 
inexpediently  expressing  itself. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  7 

"  To  whom  are  you  alluding,  Miss  Ferrers  ?  " 

"  To  Mr.  Sheringham,  of  course." 

"  Then  be  good  enough  to  give  him  his  proper  title. 
I  am  not  accustomed  to  hear  one  of  my  friends  spoken 
of  as  a  '  man.'  However,  your  impertinence  only  con- 
firms me  in  my  intentions.  I  shall  not  take  you  to 
Eastbourne  with  us,  and  as  we  leave  the  house  to- 
morrow you  must  leave  to-morrow  too.  I  may  as 
well  pay  you  your  wages  and  then  we  need  not  meet 
again.  It  will  be  pleasanter  for  both  sides." 

"  Of  course,  you  know  that  you  are  treating  me 
abominably,"  said  Amabel.  "If  I  were  a  kitchen- 
maid " 

"  Kitchenmaids  have  a  market  value,"  said  Mrs. 
Hunter.  "  Incompetent  young  ladies  have  none." 

"  I  have  nowhere  to  go  to  from  here." 

"  That  is  not  my  business." 

"  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  such  treat- 
ment." 

"  I  refuse  to  prolong  the  discussion,"  said  Mrs. 
Hunter,  holding  out  a  five-pound  note.  "  I  owe  you 
for  one  month  and  I  will  pay  you  for  two.  It  is 
more  than  you  deserve." 

"  It  is  my  legal  due,"  said  Amabel ;  "  and  I  believe 
you  ought  to  pay  me  board  wages  too." 

"  I  shall  not  pay  you  another  penny,"  said  Mrs. 
Hunter,  and  the  note  fluttered  from  her  fingers  and 
fell  on  the  floor.  "  Remember  you  are  leaving  more 
or  less  under  a  cloud." 


TH] 


8  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  That  is  a  disgraceful  thing  to  say,"  exclaimed 
Amabel. 

"  I  shall  say  it  to  any  one  who  comes  here  for 
your  character,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter.  "  I  consider  you 
flighty  and  impertinent." 

Amabel  felt  that  she  had  no  weapons  and  no  hope 
of  redress.  She  could  not  rail  back  as  a  woman  of 
coarser  grain  would  have  done.  She  picked  up  the 
bank  note  and  ran  hastily  out  of  the  room,  and  then 
she  burst  into  tears.  She  was  still  crying  when  the 
red-headed  page  boy  came  into  the  school-room  with 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  plate  of  bread  and  butter  on  a  tray. 
He  looked  at  the  girl  and  went  away  again.  In  a 
few  minutes  Amabel  heard  a  slow,  heavy  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  she  dried  her  eyes  and  tried  to  pull  herself 
together,  because  she  thought  it  must  be  Mrs.  Hunter. 
But  the  door  opened  and  the  cook  appeared,  panting 
and  good-natured. 

"  Ginger  said  you  were  crying,  Miss,"  she  be- 
gan ;  "  I  thought  I'd  come  and  see.  Ain't  you 
well?" 

"  I'm  to  leave  the  house  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Pugsley," 
said  Amabel.  "  Do  you  know  of  any  cheap,  respect- 
able room?  I've  nowhere  to  go." 

The  cook  sat  down. 

"Why  are  you  to  leave  the  house  to-morrow?" 
she  inquired,  and  Amabel  saw  that  every  one  would 
ask  her  the  same  question,  and  that  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  answer. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  9 

"  Mrs.  Hunter  is  not  satisfied,"  she  said ;  "  I  think 
she  has  taken  a  dislike  to  me." 

"  Mrs.  'Unter  is  not  a  lady,"  said  the  cook,  with 
the  queer  discrimination  of  her  class  in  such  matters. 
"  You  are.  That's  reason  enough,  I'll  be  bound.  Don't 
you  fret,  Miss.  I'll  go  round  to  the  office  I  patronise 
to-morrow  and  I'll  tell  'em  if  they  don't  find  you 
something  soft  within  a  week  they  won't  'ave  me  on 
their  books  again,  nor  any  of  my  friends." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Amabel,  cheering  up 
a  little,  "  but  I'm  afraid  no  one  will  take  me  without 
a  reference." 

"  Well !  "  said  the  cook,  beginning  to  bristle. 

"  Mrs.  Hunter  refuses  me  a  good  one." 

''  Then  I  shall  Iiave  a  few  words  with  Mrs.  'Unter 
to-morrow  morning,"  said  the  cook  majestically.  "  She 
won't  let  me  go  if  she  can  'elp  it.  A  better  behaved 
young  lady  I  never  saw  —  and  them  children  so  spoiled 
and  quarrelsome,  Job  'imself  would  give  'em  a  good 
hiding,  and  of  course  it's  what  they  deserve." 

At  that  moment  George's  red  head  thrust  itself 
cautiously  in  at  the  door. 

"  Now  what  do  you  want,  Ginger  ?  "  said  the  cook. 
"Don't  you  see  I'm  engaged?" 

The  boy  held  a  telegram  towards  her  and  she  took 
it  from  him. 

"  You  needn't  wait,"  she  said ;  and,  when  he  had 
shut  the  door,  she  turned  to  Amabel. 

"Ginger  is  that  curious.  It's  for  you,  Miss,"  she  said. 


io  THE   THOUSAND    EUGENIAS 


II 


"  FOR  me ! "  cried  Amabel.  She  could  hardly  believe 
it;  but  she  saw  her  name  on  the  orange-colored  en- 
velope and  on  the  form  inside. 

"  Come  and  see  me,  Paris.  Cannot  leave.  Hotel 
Ritz.  —  MICHAEL  FERRERS." 

"  How  extraordinary,"  said  Amabel,  and  she  showed 
the  form  to  her  friend. 

"  What's  it  mean  ?  "  said  the  cook.  "  I  never  can 
make  head  nor  tail  of  a  telegram.  Why  can't  people 
write  a  plain  letter?  If  there  was  less  hurry  there'd 
be  less  mistakes,  I  always  tell  my  kitchenmaids.  But 
you  may  preach  all  your  life  and  you  won't  persuade 
other  folks  to  practise." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Amabel,  and  she  took  the  tele- 
gram into  her  hands  again  —  "I  suppose  it  is  from 
my  uncle,  Michael  Ferrers.  I  wrote  to  him  some 
months  ago.  I  thought  he  was  in  South  America,  but 
this  seems  to  come  from  Paris." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  said  the  cook  suspiciously, 
and  they  examined  the  telegram  together.  When 
Amabel  lifted  her  head  she  pointed  to  the  five-pound 
note  lying  on  the  table. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  n 

"  That  is  all  the  money  I  have  in  the  world,"  said 
she. 

"  Lor !  "  said  the  cook. 

"  And  if  I  spend  it  on  going  to  Paris " 

"  And  find  it  was  one  of  them  lying  telegrams,  and 
you  hadn't  no  uncle  at  all,  and  there  was  no  such 
hotel." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  could  happen,"  said  Amabel. 

"  Anything  can  happen  with  telegrams,"  said  the 
cook,  "  else  what'd  the  halfpenny  papers  do  ?  '  Hor- 
rible massacre ! '  one  day :  '  Women  and  children  tor- 
tured :  nobody  left  alive ! '  and  next  day  every  one  all 
right  and  the  news  as  flat  as  pancakes.  I  know  them 
telegrams.  And  yet,  seeing  how  you're  placed,  it  do 
seem  worth  a  little  risk  —  just  to  go  there  and  drive 
up  to  the  hotel  —  if  you  can  find  it  —  and  ask  if  they 
know  your  uncle  —  and  come  straight  back  if  they 
don't." 

Here  the  cook  raised  her  voice.  "  Ginger,"  she 
cried,  and  when  Ginger  immediately  opened  the  door, 
she  winked  at  Amabel. 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be  far  off,"  she  said  placidly ; 
"  you  run  round  to  Whiteley's  as  fast  as  your  feet'll 
carry  you,  and  go  to  that  counter  where  they  have 
the  railway  time-tables  laid  out  —  somewhere  near  the 
provisions,  it  is  —  say  you  want  to  get  to  Paris  quick 
and  cheap.  You  won't  have  to  pay  —  but  there's 
twopence  in  case  you  do  —  and  mind  you're  back  in 
five  minutes." 


12  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  And  what'll  I  say  if  SHE  rings  ?  "  said  the  boy,  in 
injured  accents. 

"  Say  I  sent  you  for  a  lemon,"  said  the  cook. 
"  Here's  another  penny.  Bring  one." 

"  If  I  go  —  and  spend  my  money  —  and  nothing 
comes  of  it  —  I  shall  be  worse  off  than  before,"  said 
Amabel,  when  the  boy  had  run  off. 

"  You  mustn't  look  forward  to  that,"  said  the  cook. 
"  Turn  a  bright  face  to  the  world  and  the  world'll 
turn  a  bright  face  to  you.  Besides,  you  can  always 
come  back  here  and  lodge  with  my  sister  in  the  Arte- 
sian Road,  as  is  a  widow.  Don't  you  trouble  too  much. 
It's  no  good,  and  it  spoils  the  complexion." 

"  I  wish  I  could  cook,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  should 
never  be  out  of  work  then." 

"  P'raps  you'd  sometimes  wish  you  were  —  when 
the  hot  weather  comes  and  the  jellies  are  uncertain. 
Every  perfession  has  its  drawbacks,"  said  the  cook; 
and  then  Amabel  went  on  with  her  tea,  and  presently 
Ginger  came  back  with  various  time-tables. 

"  If  I  go  by  Newhaven  and  Dieppe  to-morrow,  I 
shall  get  there  at  seven,"  said  Amabel,  in  a  little  while. 
"  Oh,  Cookie,  dear,  am  I  really  going  to  risk  half  my 
fortune !  The  single  fare  is  £ i,  53. ;  the  return  is  — 

"  Don't  take  a  return,"  advised  the  cook.  "  It  looks 
distrustful.  I  must  go  and  see  to  my  dinner  now,  my 
dear,  because  last  time  I  let  Maria  do  the  quenelles 
she  sent  'em  up  in  a  mash.  But  I'll  see  you  off  from 
Victoria  to-morrow  morning." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  13 

"  I  can't  believe  I'm  going,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  can't 
believe  in  that  telegram." 

"  It's  a  chance,"  said  the  cook,  "  and  if  you  don't 
take  a  chance  in  this  world,  where  are  you?  I  dare- 
say it  won't  be  all  jam  in  Paris  any  more  nor  what 
it  is  here.  Your  uncle  may  have  a  wife,  and  she  may 
have  a  temper;  but  if  he's  one  to  like  a  pretty  face 
and  figure  you'll  do.  You're  not  as  unlucky  as  you 
think  you  are,  and  that's  a  fact.  You  can't  expect 
everything  of  them  above,  and  as  far  as  eyes  and  hair 
and  shape  go,  they've  done  pretty  well  for  you." 

Amabel  looked  in  the  glass  when  her  friend  had 
departed,  and  she  certainly  saw  a  charming  girl  re- 
flected there.  Her  hair  was  thick  and  bright  and 
wavy,  and  her  eyes  were  grey  and  her  nose  straightly 
cut  and  delicate;  and  besides  beauty  of  feature  she 
possessed  just  now  the  beauty  of  youth,  and  would 
always  possess  the  beauty  of  expression  that  is  the 
outward  sign  of  kindness  and  intelligence.  The  sud- 
den change  in  her  prospects  had  dried  her  tears  and 
diverted  her  thoughts,  and  as  she  packed  for  the 
children  and  herself,  she  dwelt  on  the  uncertain  issues 
of  to-morrow  instead  of  fretting  over  the  offences  of 
to-day.  She  tried  to  remember  everything  her  father 
had  ever  said  of  his  brother  Michael,  and  she  could 
not  remember  much.  She  did  not  know  of  any 
estrangement  to  account  for  her  uncle's  long  silence. 
Her  parents  had  believed  him  to  be  dead,  and  when 
she  found  his  name  above  an  address  in  a  Spanish- 


14  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

sounding  South  American  town,  she  had  written  as 
people  write  to  some  one  quite  unknown,  in  a  spirit 
of  adventure  and  with  uncertain  hope  of  a  reply. 

The  evening  passed  quickly.  The  children  came  back 
and  kept  her  busy,  and  when  they  were  in  bed  she 
still  had  a  good  deal  to  do.  It  was  midnight  before 
she  had  finished,  and  then  she  fell  asleep,  and  woke 
with  a  start  next  morning  when  a  maid  came  in  with 
a  cup  of  tea  sent  upstairs  by  the  cook.  Amabel  drank 
it  as  she  was  dressing. 

"  Why  are  you  putting  on  your  hat  ?  "  said  Florrie, 
the  elder  of  two  children  who  slept  in  the  room. 

"  Because  I  am  going  away,"  said  Amabel. 

"  I  know  you  are  going  away.  Mamma  told  me 
last  night  she  would  not  keep  you  any  longer  because 
you  were  not  setting  Guinevere  and  me  a  good  ex- 
ample. But  she  said  you  were  to  give  us  our  break- 
fast first  as  usual." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  stay  for  that,"  said  Amabel, 
putting  on  her  veil. 

"  But  you  must  if  Mamma  tells  you  to,"  said  the 
child,  with  a  good  imitation  of  her  mother's  pompous 
manner;  and  as  Amabel  took  no  notice  she  jumped 
out  of  bed  and  ran  downstairs  to  lodge  a  complaint. 

Luckily  for  Amabel  her  trunk  had  been  carried 
down  by  Ginger  and  a  housemaid  the  night  before, 
but  she  was  stopped  herself  this  morning  by  the  ap- 
parition of  Mrs.  Hunter  in  a  quilted  dressing-gown 
and  curling-pins. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  15 

"  Miss  Ferrers,"  she  said,  "  be  good  enough  to  go 
upstairs  again  at  once  and  give  the  children  their 
breakfast.  You  will  leave  this  house  when  we  leave 
for  Eastbourne  and  not  a  moment  before." 

"  I  must  leave  at  once,"  said  Amabel,  and  she  took 
another  step  towards  the  last  flight  of  stairs ;  but  Mrs. 
Hunter's  portly  figure  barred  the  way. 

"  Come  along,  Miss,"  said  a  fat,  good-tempered 
voice  from  below,  "  the  cab's  here." 

"  Cook !  "  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  she  went  down- 
stairs herself,  followed,  of  course,  by  Amabel.  Ginger 
was  in  the  hall  as  well  as  the  cook. 

"  It's  all  right,  mum,"  said  the  cook.  "  I'll  be  back 
before  you're  ready  to  give  orders.  I'm  only  going  as 
far  as  Victoria  to  see  Miss  Ferrers  off." 

"  Victoria !  Didn't  you  tell  me  yesterday  you  had 
nowhere  to  go,  you  wicked,  deceitful  girl !  —  trying 
to  excite  my  pity  on  false  pretences." 

"  There  wasn't  much  false  pretences,"  said  the  cook, 
for  Amabel  would  not  condescend  to  speak.  "  Things 
is  like  weather,  and  take  up  sudden  for  the  better 
sometimes.  Miss  Ferrers  had  an  invitation  she  didn't 
expect  last  night  to  go  and  stay  with  an  uncle  in  Paris 
at  the  Hotel —  What  was  the  name  of  the  hotel, 
Miss?" 

"The  Hotel  Ritz,"  said  Amabel. 

"  A  likely  story,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter.  "  Dukes  and 
millionaires  stay  at  the  Hotel  Ritz." 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  either  the  one  or  the  other  in 


16  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

my  family,"  said  the  cook,  and  she  followed  Amabel 
down  the  front  steps. 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  lose  your  place  on  my  account," 
said  Amabel  regretfully,  as  they  drove  away. 

"  Lor'  bless  you,  my  dear,  I  can  get  twenty  places 
a  hour  and  pick  and  choose,"  said  her  champion. 
"  Think  of  my  made  dishes  and  my  gravies.  I've 
rather  a  fancy  to  go  and  live  with  an  earl.  I  read 
such  a  lot  about  earls  in  all  them  Family  Story-tellers, 
but  I  ain't  never  rolled  out  pastry  for  one.  I  don't  see 
why  I  shouldn't  as  good  as  another.  After  all,  pastry 
is  pastry  and  nothing  else,  whether  it's  for  a  earl  or 
a  gentleman." 

"  You're  the  only  friend  I'm  leaving  in  London," 
said  Amabel  as  the  train  moved  out  of  the  station. 

"And  I  hope  you'll  soon  be  back  with  one  better 
worth  looking  at,"  said  the  cook. 

Amabel's  fellow-pilgrims  certainly  seemed  to  think 
her  worth  looking  at,  and  she  travelled  with  some 
pleasant  people,  who  helped  her  through  the  Douane 
and  into  a  cab  at  Paris.  As  she  drove  through  the 
twinkling  streets  to  the  Place  Vendome,  all  the  hopes 
and  doubts  that  had  possessed  her  since  yesterday 
reached  their  height,  and  when  the  driver  stopped  at 
the  doors  of  the  hotel  and  a  porter  came  forward, 
Amabel  hardly  had  breath  enough  to  bring  out  her 
uncle's  name.  But  the  man  only  signed  her  inside 
the  hotel,  and  there  she  had  to  do  with  a  clerk,  who 
spoke  English  —  said  that  Mr.  Ferrers  was  in,  and 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  17 

invited  her  to  wait  in  a  room  close  by.  She  sat  down 
and  looked  through  the  window  at  the  courtyard, 
which  was  gay  with  plants  and  full  of  people  sitting 
at  little  tables.  Through  the  open  door  of  the  room 
she  saw  other  people  pass  through  the  hall,  in  and 
out  of  the  hotel,  and  from  the  square  outside  she  heard 
the  rumble  of  wheels,  the  tuff-tuff  of  automobiles, 
and  the  cries  of  paper  boys  with  the  latest  edition  of 
La  Patrie.  But  her  impressions  were  blurred,  for  her 
thoughts  were  fixed  entirely  on  the  unknown  uncle, 
and  every  pulse  in  her  body  seemed  to  wait  for  his 
arrival.  But  the  noise  and  the  movement  went  on 
around  her,  and  no  one  came  into  the  room.  She 
stared  out  at  the  courtyard,  she  watched  the  hall,  the 
minutes  passed  very  slowly.  At  last  she  went  up  to 
the  centre  table,  found  some  English  papers  there, 
and  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  Times.  When  she 
looked  towards  the  door  again,  a  man  of  middle  age 
had  come  inside  the  room,  and  stood  there  watching 
her.  He  shut  the  door  as  she  went  towards  him. 


18  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 


III 


"  I  AM  Amabel  Ferrers,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  Michael  Ferrers,"  said  he,  and  then  for  a 
moment  they  took  stock  of  each  other.  He  was  a 
grizzled,  wiry-looking  man,  and  he  seemed  to  be  in 
a  hurry;  and  his  eyes,  though  they  were  fixed  on  her, 
were  preoccupied. 

"  You're  very  much  like  your  father,"  he  said ; 
"  when  he  was  a  boy  he  was  so  pretty  that  strangers 
used  to  stop  him  in  the  street  and  ask  him  his  name. 
Every  one  took  to  him  at  once." 

"  Some  people  take  a  dislike  to  me,"  said  Amabel, 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Hunter  and  her  family. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers;  "I'm 
glad  you've  come.  I  shall  have  ten  days  or  so  here, 
unless  anything  goes  wrong  with  the  Eugenia,  and 
then  back  I  go  to  Mexico." 

Amabel  felt  dreadfully  disappointed.  If  her  uncle 
was  going  to  the  other  end  of  the  world  in  a  short 
ten  days,  nothing  much  would  come  of  her  acquaint- 
ance with  him.  She  wondered  who  Eugenia  was, 
and  why  Mr.  Ferrers  spoke  of  her  with  the  definite 
article. 

"  Your  letter  crawled  around  the  world  after  me," 
he  continued.  "  I  got  it  in  Japan.  I  was  very  sorry 


THE   THOUSAND    EUGENIAS  19 

to  hear  my  brother  and  his  wife  were  both  dead.  I 
always  meant  to  look  them  up,  but  I  haven't  been  as 
near  England  as  this  for  twenty  years,  and  I  never 
write  letters.  You  didn't  tell  me  much  in  yours.  Are 
you  an  only  child  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Amabel;  "I've  neither  kith  nor  kin  — 
except  you." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  then,  since  your 
parents  died  ? ." 

"  I  was  in  a  situation  as  governess  till  this  morning." 

"Bless  me!  didn't  my  brother  make  money?" 

"  Never  very  much,  and  when  mother  died  there 
wasn't  five  pounds.  I  didn't  tell  you  in  my  letter, 
because  I  thought  you  might  be  as  poor  as  I  was. 
If  you  are  going  back  to  Mexico,  Uncle  Michael,  I'm 
afraid  I  ought  to  go  straight  back  to  London  and  find 
a  new  situation.  The  money  I  have  won't  last  many 
days,  and  I  don't  know  any  one  in  London  to  help  me 
except  a  cook " 

"  A  cook  !  " 

"  Yes  —  where  I  was  governess  —  she  was  very 
kind,  but,  of  course,  she  is  not  well  off  and " 

"  But  I  am,"  interrupted  Mr.  Ferrers.  "  I  wish 
I'd  known  about  your  father.  It  puzzles  me  why  any 
one  who  wants  money  shouldn't  get  it.  If  the  Eugenia 
behaves  as  I  expect  she  will,  I  shall  have  more  money 
than  /  want  soon." 

"Is  she  —  are  you  —  is  the  Eugenia  my  aunt?" 
said  Amabel. 


20  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  The  Eugenia  is  a  mine,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers  seri- 
ously. "  I  am  not  married." 

"  I  wish  you  were,"  said  Amabel. 

"You  must  find  a  wife  for  me,  then,"  said  Mr. 
Ferrers ;  "  I've  never  had  time.  But  you  needn't  think 
about  going  back  to  London  yet.  I'll  order  you  a  room 
and  something  to  eat,  and  when  you're  ready  come 
down  here  again  and  let  me  know.  I've  two  people 
dining  with  me,  and  I  must  go  back  to  them." 

"  Are  they  very  smart  people  ?  "  said  Amabel  a  little 
later,  when  she  had  dressed  and  dined  and  found  her 
uncle  again.  "  I  don't  suppose  you  know  what  a  smart 
woman  would  think  of  my  clothes,  and  I've  put  on 
my  Sunday  frock." 

"  The  Varasdins  are  Hungarians,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers, 
leading  the  way  to  the  courtyard.  "  I  only  know  them 
through  doing  business  with  the  husband.  She  ap- 
pears to  be  an  agreeable  woman.  I  never  saw  her  till 
to-night.  I  think  she's  in  black.  They  both  speak 
English.  They  have  suggested  that  we  should  go  out 
somewhere  —  to  a  cafe,  I  suppose.  It  will  be  more 
entertaining  for  you  than  sitting  still  here." 

Mr.  Ferrers  stopped  near  one  of  the  little  tables, 
and  introduced  Amabel  to  the  two  people  waiting  for 
him  there.  The  husband  was  a  tall,  flabby-looking 
man,  with  shifty  brown  eyes  and  a  head  of  hair  that 
wanted  cutting.  He  made  Amabel  an  elaborate  bow, 
and  at  once  engaged  her  in  conversation,  but  she  found 
it  difficult  to  attend  to  him  because  her  fascinated  eyes 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  21 

returned  again  and  again  to  the  brilliant  figure  of 
his  wife.  Even  judged  by  the  French  standard  of 
beauty,  which  differs  so  much  from  our  own,  Madame 
Varasdin  was  not  a  beautiful  woman,  and,  judged  by 
the  English  and  the  Greek  ideals,  she  was  positively 
plain.  In  colouring  and  in  feature  she  could  no  more 
compare  with  Amabel  than  the  monkey  on  a  barrel 
organ  can  compare  with  the  charming  Italian  boy  who 
pets  him.  She  had  dark,  very  narrow  eyes,  a  big 
mouth,  a  sallow  skin,  and  stiff  black  hair  rolled  back 
from  her  face  in  Japanese  fashion.  But  she  had  the 
manner  and  the  glances  of  a  woman  who  has  found 
times  without  number  that  she  is  irresistible;  she  was 
as  graceful  as  a  cat,  she  talked  with  vivacity  and  she 
dressed  with  art.  When  Amabel  appeared,  she  said 
a  civil  word  or  two,  and  then  seemed  to  make  up  her 
mind  that  a  girl  in  such  a  blouse  and  skirt  was  not 
one  to  reckon  with.  So  she  settled  her  long  feather 
boa  and  entertained  Mr.  Ferrers  and  looked  about  her. 
In  a  little  while  her  attention  seemed  to  fix  itself  on 
a  young  man  sitting  at  a  table  opposite  their  own,  and 
when  her  party  got  up  to  go  she  went  a  little  out  of 
her  way  in  order  to  pass  close  by  him.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  as  to  his  nationality.  He  was  well 
groomed,  he  was  drinking  a  whisky  and  soda,  he  was 
reading  Punch  and  the  Times.  As  Madame  Varasdin 
rustled  past  him,  he  looked  up  and  at  once  sprang  to 
his  feet.  His  manner  expressed  ardent  pleasure,  but 
his  British  tongue  said,  "  Oh,  Madame  Varasdin !  " 


22  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

and  then  stopped  short.  He  seemed  to  know  the  hus- 
band too,  and  shook  hands  with  him  as  if  he  only  half 
liked  the  obligation. 

Madame  Varasdin  mentioned  to  the  others  that  he 
was  Mr.  Newby,  and  then  she  sat  down  at  his  table 
and  talked  to  him,  and  Amabel  thought  she  had 
never  seen  any  one  smile  so  brilliantly  or  express  so 
much  with  her  hands.  But  Mr.  Ferrers  soon  grew 
impatient. 

"  We  ought  to  be  going,"  he  said  to  M.  Varasdin ; 
and  Varasdin  said  to  his  wife  in  a  diffident  voice  — 

"  Mr.  Ferrers  thinks  we  should  go  now,  Anastasie." 

Anastasie's  eyes  almost  shut  as  she  just  glanced  at 
her  husband. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said ;  "  I  will  come  when  I  am  ready. 
Mr.  Newby  will  escort  me,  I  know." 

"  Rather,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

Varasdin  was  evidently  used  to  doing  as  he  was 
bid.  He  found  a  cab  outside  the  hotel  for  his  com- 
panions and  himself  and  drove  with  them  to  the  Cafe 
de  Paris.  On  the  way  he  told  Mr.  Ferrers  that  his 
wife  had  met  Mr.  Newby  at  Aix-les-Bains  last  year, 
and  that  he  had  a  large  income  and  was  very  sym- 
pathetic. 

Amabel  was  amused  by  the  little  grunt  with  which 
her  uncle  received  this  account  of  their  new  acquaint- 
ance, but  after  that  she  did  not  listen  to  what  the  two 
men  were  saying,  because  they  began  to  talk  of  busi- 
ness, and  she  was  bewitched  by  the  sights  and  lights 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  23 

of  Paris.  When  they  were  seated  within  the  cafe, 
her  uncle  ordered  ice  for  her  and  Bocks  for  M.  Varas- 
din  and  himself,  and  they  watched  the  midnight  life 
of  the  city  coming  and  going  in  fine  raiment.  They 
had  been  there  for  some  time  when  Madame  Varasdin 
appeared  with  Mr.  Newby,  and  though  the  cafe  was 
full  of  well-dressed  women,  all  eyes  followed  her  be- 
cause she  was  strikingly  tall  and  graceful  and  wore 
fine  diamonds  and  a  fine  cloak.  The  cloak  had  hang- 
ing sleeves  and  an  amazing  ruffled  collar  and  gold 
embroideries,  and  a  Venetian  painter  would  have 
shown  you  Anastasie  framed  and  draped  with  it,  and 
you  would  have  turned  like  the  rest  of  that  company 
from  Amabel,  who  was  a  beauty,  to  the  woman  who 
was  plain. 

She  sat  down  and  ordered  little  hot  crayfish  that 
she  ate  without  bread  or  sauces  and  with  the  help  of 
her  fingers.  She  had  lithe-looking,  long  hands,  and 
they  blazed  with  jewels,  and  Amabel  first  watched  her 
and  then  turned  away.  The  lady  made  her  meal  as 
her  neighbours  did,  and  yet  it  was  unpleasant  to  see 
her  delicate  fingers  tear  the  little  creatures  asunder. 
Amabel  was  a  matter-of-fact  Briton  and  not  fanciful ; 
yet  it  crossed  her  fancy  that  Madame  Varasdin  would 
have  destroyed  the  crayfish  with  the  same  quickness 
and  appetite  if  they  had  been  alive.  When  she  had 
finished,  she  pushed  back  her  chair  and  talked  to  Mr. 
Ferrers  and  Mr.  Newby.  Her  English  was  fluent 
and  correct,  and  her  foreign  accent  gave  point  to  her 


24  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

stories,  which  were  all  of  cosmopolitan  people  and  in 
cynical  demonstration  of  human  folly.  Their  flavour 
was  not  sweet  in  the  memory,  but  they  suited  the  hour, 
because  the  hour  was  dominated  by  the  lady  who  told 
them.  For  all  the  notice  any  one  took  of  Amabel  she 
might  have  been  a  wooden  dummy ;  but  she  looked  and 
listened  and  felt  very  well  amused.  It  was  after  mid- 
night when  Madame  Varasdin  suddenly  got  up. 

"  Look  at  those  women  in  mourning,"  she  said 
audibly ;  "  they  are  taking  the  table  opposite  us.  We 
don't  want  to  sit  and  stare  at  them.  I  hate  anything 
gloomy." 

"  Are  you  busy  to-morrow,  Madame  Varasdin  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Ferrers. 

The  lady  glanced  at  Mr.  Newby,  who  turned  red. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  take  your  niece  to  see  the 
Tomb  of  Napoleon?"  she  asked. 

"  Something  of  the  kind,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers.  "  I 
shall  be  busy  till  five.  Could  you  come  to  lunch,  and 
then  take  Amabel  to  the  right  milliners?  I  believe 
they  are  more  important  than  the  Tomb." 

"  I  will  come  with  pleasure,"  said  Madame  Varas- 
din. "  I  have  one  engagement  to-morrow,  but  I  can 
fix  any  time  I  choose  for  it.  I  will  call  for  your  niece 
in  the  morning  and  we  will  have  lunch  together,  and 
at  five  —  at  five,  when  you  are  free,  Mr.  Ferrers,  you 
will  find  us  at  Colombin's,  the  tea-house  in  the  Rue 
Cambon,  you  know.  Can  I  depend  on  you  to  pick  us 
up  there  ?  " 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  25 

"  Certainly !  "  said  Mr.  Ferrers.  "  But  how  about 
your  other  engagement  ?  " 

"  Six  o'clock  will  do  for  that,"  said  Madame  Varas- 
din.  "  We  don't  dine  till  half-past  seven.  Mr.  Newby, 
will  you  dine  with  us  to-morrow  at  half-past  seven  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  I  wish  Varasdin  had  half  the  wits  of  his  wife," 
said  Mr.  Ferrers  to  Amabel,  as  they  drove  home  to- 
gether. "  I  call  her  a  very  agreeable  woman,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  Ye-es,"  said  Amabel,  with  the  uncertain  assent 
that  points  to  a  contrary  opinion.  She  could  not  keep 
her  eyes  off  Madame  Varasdin,  but  she  was  not  at 
all  sure  that  she  thought  her  agreeable. 


26  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 


IV 


AMABEL  had  not  seen  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon  yet,  but 
she  had  seen  a  Paris  dressmaker  and  several  Paris 
shops,  and  now  she  sat  at  one  of  Colombin's  tea-tables, 
in  a  blouse  and  a  hat  and  a  ruffle  that  changed  her  in 
a  twinkling  from  a  moth  to  a  butterfly.  Her  uncle 
had  taken  her  breath  away  that  morning  by  telling 
her,  all  in  a  hurry,  while  he  drank  his  coffee  and 
glanced  at  his  financial  papers,  that  he  meant  to  pro- 
vide for  her,  and  that,  as  he  had  to  be  in  Paris  on 
and  off  till  this  affair  of  the  Eugenia  was  settled,  she 
might  stay  there  for  the  present  —  in  the  hotel  at  first, 
and,  when  he  ran  back  to  Mexico,  in  a  family  or  a 
Pension. 

"  You  must  ask  Madame  Varasdin  about  clothes," 
he  said,  with  a  glance  at  his  niece's  worse-for-wear 
guinea  coat  and  skirt.  "  She  appears  to  understand 
them.  You  can't  go  about  with  her  dressed  like  a 
country  cousin.  I've  plenty  of  money  and  nothing 
much  to  do  with  it,  and  no  one  belonging  to  me.  You 
may  just  as  well  have  a  good  time.  I  like  the  way 
you  came  here  —  straight  off,  on  the  chance.  I've 
done  things  of  that  sort  myself,  and  I'm  on  the  top  of 
the  wave  now.  Here  is  some  French  money." 

Mr.  Ferrers  had  taken  out  a  pocket-book  and  was 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  27 

extracting  French  bank  notes  from  it.  He  put  five 
beside  her,  and  she  saw  that  each  one  was  for  a 
thousand  francs. 

"  Oh ! "  she  said,  and  her  uncle  looked  at  her  with 
amusement.  He  enjoyed  her  surprise  and  confusion, 
and  he  enjoyed  using  some  of  his  money  in  this  novel 
way. 

"  It  won't  last  you  long  if  you  go  shopping  with 
Madame  Varasdin,"  he  said.  "  She  looks  expensive. 
I  don't  know  how  a  fool  like  her  husband  manages 
to  pay  for  those  diamonds." 

"  Is  M.  Varasdin  a  fool  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

"  He's  a  fool  who's  always  telling  you  he's  a  clever 
fellow,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers.  "  I'd  any  time  rather  deal 
with  a  clever  fellow  who  tells  me  he's  a  fool." 

Then  he  got  up  and  put  away  his  pocket-book,  and 
said  to  Amabel  that  he  must  go  about  his  business 
now,  but  that,  if  nothing  happened  to  prevent  it,  he 
would  take  her  to  the  opera  to-night ;  and  Amabel  got 
ready  for  Madame  Varasdin,  having  made  up  her  mind 
that  the  first  thing  she  would  buy  should  be  a  silk 
dress  for  the  cook. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Madame  Varasdin,  as 
they  sat  at  lunch  together. 

"  I  believe  I  want  everything  —  from  your  point 
of  view,"  said  Amabel,  for  the  lady's  walking  gown 
and  hat  were  as  elegant  as  her  evening  raiment 
had  been.  "  I  am  sure  you  would  say  my  clothes 
were  only  fit  for  a  bonfire." 


28  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Clothes  cost  money,"  said  Madame  Varasdin,  with 
the  smile  that  seemed  to  shut  her  eyes.  "  Have  you 
any  idea  of  Paris  prices?  For  a  bolero  and  skirt  I 
pay  my  tailor " 

She  paused,  and  her  glance  gauged  Amabel's 
poor  shrunken  coat  and  skirt,  and  Amabel  felt 
quite  uncomfortable  and  in  a  hurry  to  cast  it  from 
her. 

"  The  gown  I  am  wearing  cost  twenty  guineas," 
Madame  Varasdin  continued.  "  The  little  man  who 
made  it  is  rather  clever.  You  might  order  two  or 
three  things  from  him  to  begin  with." 

"  My  uncle  gave  me  five  thousand  francs  this 
morning,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  thought  it  was  a  great 
deal  and  would  last  a  long  time.  I  should  not  like 
to  spend  it  extravagantly." 

"  It  won't  go  far  if  you  want  everything,"  said 
Madame  Varasdin.  "  From  what  Hyacinth  tells  me 
of  your  uncle  he  could  give  you  five  thousand  francs 
a  week  and  never  know  he  was  spending  money. 
But  men  are  all  the  same.  They  expect  a  woman 
to  spend  a  thousand  francs  and  look  like  a  thousand 
pounds.  I  told  Hyacinth  this  morning  that  I  wanted 
a  new  hat,  and  he  threatened  to  commit  suicide." 

"  Does  he  often  do  that  ? "  said  Amabel,  puzzled 
by  the  lady's  tranquil  manner. 

"  Whenever  anything  annoys  him,"  said  Madame 
Varasdin.  Then  they  called  a  cab  and  began  the 
business  of  the  day,  and  long  before  five  o'clock 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  29 

Amabel  had  spent  most  of  her  money.  She  had 
bought  the  silk  dress  and  despatched  it  to  the  cook, 
and  she  had  presented  Madame  Varasdin  with  a  hat 
that  the  lady  tried  on  and  put  down  with  a  sigh  be- 
cause it  cost  five  guineas.  Amabel  hardly  ventured 
to  offer  it,  but  Madame  Varasdin  made  the  way  easy 
for  her,  and  accepted  it  with  so  much  grace  that  the 
girl  saw  that  she  had  done  the  right  thing.  And  now 
here  they  were  at  Colombin's  drinking  tea  and  eating 
little  muffins,  and  looking  at  English  cakes  that  were 
not  quite  what  English  cakes  should  be,  because  they 
were  neither  stale  nor  stodgy.  The  rooms  were  very 
full  and  cheerful,  and  most  people  were  talking  Eng- 
lish and  American. 

"  Are  there  no  French  people  in  Paris  ? "  said 
Amabel. 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  come  across  them,"  said  Madame 
Varasdin.  "  I  have  lived  here  for  a  year  and  know 
none." 

"  Where  did  you  live  before  ?  "  said  Amabel,  and  as 
the  question  passed  her  lips  she  knew  she  would  have 
done  better  not  to  ask  it. 

"  I  have  lived  in  every  capital  in  Europe,"  said 
Madame  Varasdin.  "  My  husband's  affairs  are  al- 
ways taking  him  to  fresh  places." 

As  she  replied  her  husband  came  in,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Ferrers.  The  two  men  were  talking  as  they 
crossed  the  outer  shop.  They  stopped  inside  the  room 
to  talk,  and  when  they  reached  their  own  party  they 


30  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

were  still  at  the  height  of  their  argument,  and  had 
only  a  formal  greeting  for  the  ladies. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  said  Madame  Varasdin. 

"  That's  what  we  want  to  know,"  said  her  husband. 

"  It's  Eugenias,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers,  "  and  I  believe 
it's  Mexican  Jem." 

He  looked  cool  and  angry,  and  M.  Varasdin  looked 
uncomfortable.  Amabel  began  to  understand  that  the 
money  she  had  been  spending  so  easily  was  not  always 
made  with  ease  of  mind. 

"  Something  must  have  gone  wrong  over  there," 
said  M.  Varasdin. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers.  "  Mexican 
Jem  is  banging  the  market ;  that's  all." 

"  But  Eugenias  are  on  offer  all  over  the  place,"  said 
M.  Varasdin,  in  an  explanatory  way  to  his  wife. 
"  They're  as  flat  as  ditchwater.  It's  easy  enough  to 
say  it's  banging " 

"  Can't  you  find  out  what  has  happened  ? "  said 
Madame  Varasdin. 

"  No,  we  can't,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers.  "  The  mine  is 
fifty  miles  from  anywhere.  Of  course  we  have  wired 
to  the  new  manager,  but  we  have  had  no  answer." 

"  Who  is  Mexican  Jem  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

"  A  man  who  was  buying  all  the  Eugenias  he  could 
get  a  week  or  two  ago,"  said  her  uncle. 

"  But  he's  off  them  now,  and  I  wish  I  was,"  said 
M.  Varasdin.  "  It's  too  much  of  a  gamble." 

"  Have  you  any  ?  "  said  his  wife. 


THE    THOUSAND    EUGENIAS  31 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  I  have  a  thousand  in  my 
pocket." 

He  opened  a  letter  case,  and  took  from  it  the  cer- 
tificate of  the  shares.  It  lay  open  on  the  table  for  any 
one  to  see,  and  Amabel  looked  at  the  wording  cu- 
riously. 

"  Well,  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers ; 
"  I'm  going  straight  over  there.  In  case  anything  has 
gone  wrong,  I'd  rather  be  on  the  spot.  But  I  shall 
leave  orders  that  if  Mexican  Jem  offers  a  line  to- 
morrow they  are  taken  for  me." 

"  What  we  want  is  to  get  Wolfenstein  interested 
in  them,"  said  M.  Varasdin.  "  He  would  strengthen 
our  faction." 

"  Wolfenstein's  hands  are  not  clean,"  said  Mr.  Fer- 
rers. 

Varasdin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Business  is  business,"  said  he ;  "  Wolfenstein  is 
a  very  clever  man.  He  made  a  quarter  of  a  million 
last  year,  and  this  year  he's  doing  better  still;  and 
you  should  see  the  names  of  the  people  who  go  to  his 
wife's  parties.  They  don't  seem  to  mind  about  his 
hands." 

"  I'm  rather  nice  about  my  name,"  said  Mr.  Fer- 
rers. "  I've  never  been  mixed  up  with  a  shady  lot 
yet." 

"  If  you  talk  like  that  to  my  husband  he  will  think 
you  are  not  a  good  man  of  business,"  said  Mme. 
Varasdin. 


32  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  score  off  Mexican  Jem,"  said 
Mr.  Ferrers. 

"  Or  he'll  score  off  us,"  said  M.  Varasdin,  looking 
dolefully  at  the  Eugenia  shares. 

Amabel  thought  her  uncle's  glance  took  the  other 
man's  measure  and  found  him  wanting. 

"  I'll  let  you  out  if  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers ; 
"  I'll  take  back  your  little  lot." 

"  Done,"  said  Varasdin  eagerly. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  throwing  away  a  good  thing," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin  rather  anxiously.  Mr.  Ferrers  had 
taken  out  his  cheque-book,  and  was  filling  in  a  cheque. 

"  I'll  give  you  your  thousand  pounds,"  he  said,  with 
an  air  of  conviction  that  was  impressive.  "  You 
couldn't  get  the  price  in  London  or  here  this  after- 
noon. But  I  believe  in  Eugenias." 

"  I  can't  afford  a  gamble,"  said  Varasdin  sulkily. 
"  My  expenses  are  too  heavy." 

Mr.  Ferrers  tore  off  the  cheque  and  presented  it  to 
M.  Varasdin.  For  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  lull  at 
that  particular  tea-table,  and  Amabel  wondered  what 
was  going  to  happen.  She  saw  that  her  uncle's 
thoughts  were  far  away  from  the  Parisian  tea-house. 
He  consulted  first  a  calendar  and  then  a  railway  time- 
table, and  then  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  I  can  just  do  it,"  he  said.  "  But  I  must  be  at  the 
Nord  in  half-an-hour." 

As  if  each  minute  had  grown  precious,  he  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  got  up,  but  his  eyes  fell  on  Amabel, 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  33 

and  he  sat  down  again.  She  looked  at  him  expec- 
tantly. 

"  I  can't  take  you  to  the  opera  till  I  come  back," 
he  said ;  "  I  must  go  to  Mexico  at  once  and  find  out 
what  has  happened.  I'll  leave  you  all  the  French 
money  I  have,  and  I'll  pay  up  at  the  hotel,  and  I'll 
send  you  a  cheque.  You  mustn't  stay  on  at  the  Ritz 
by  yourself.  Mme.  Varasdin,  can  you  tell  my  niece 
of  a  comfortable  pension?  If  not,  she  had  better  go 
straight  to  England." 

"  When  shall  you  be  back,  Uncle  Michael  ?  "  said 
Amabel,  and  she  looked  at  him  rather  wistfully. 

"  It  is  sure  to  be  weeks,  it  might  be  months,"  said 
Mr.  Ferrers.  "  I  may  find  the  new  manager  is  mak- 
ing a  mess  of  things.  You  must  send  me  your  ad- 
dress, of  course.  I'll  wire  you  mine.  You'll  be  all 
right,  you  know.  So  shall  I  —  at  least  I  hope  I 
shall  —  Anyhow  —  if  I'm  not  all  right  —  give  me 
that  certificate,  Varasdin  —  I  believe  you  will  be  with 
this  —  but  take  care  of  it,  my  dear  —  they're  bearer 
shares." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Amabel,  taking  the  paper  from 
her  uncle. 

"  It's  a  thousand  Eugenias,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers. 

"  Mademoiselle  enters  the  affair  in  the  pleasantest 
way,"  said  M.  Varasdin.  "  She  takes  no  risk,  and  the 
chance  of  a  big  profit.  Even  to-day,  when  things  look 
so  black,  that  little  bit  of  paper  could  be  sold  for  eight 
or  nine  hundred  pounds,  Mademoiselle." 


34  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  But  I  have  just  seen  you  sell  it  for  a  thousand," 
Amabel  reminded  him. 

"  The  prices  of  such  things  go  up  and  down,"  her 
uncle  explained  to  her.  "  These  shares  may  be  worth 
a  good  many  thousands  soon.  Keep  them  tight  till  I 
wire  to  you  to  sell,  and  remember  that  they  are 
unregistered  and  can  be  stolen  as  easily  as  a  bank- 
note." 

"  But  how  shall  I  sell  them  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

"Go  to  a  respectable  stockbroker,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers. 

"  I  don't  know  one,"  said  Amabel. 

"  You  know  me,"  said  M.  Varasdin.  "  I  shall  be 
happy  to  give  you  any  assistance  in  my  power  while 
your  uncle  is  away." 

"  Are  you  a  stockbroker  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

"  I  am  not  exactly  on  the  Bourse,"  said  M.  Varas- 
din, taking  a  fine  attitude.  "  I  keep  outside  and  have 
more  scope.  I  am  what  you  call  a  financier." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Amabel  uncomprehendingly ;  and  she 
took  the  certificate  of  the  shares  back  from  Madame 
Varasdin,  who  had  been  studying  it  intently.  "  I  sup- 
pose I'm  worth  robbing,"  she  said  to  her  uncle,  as  she 
put  the  certificate  and  the  French  money  into  her 
purse. 

"  You  will  be  in  six  weeks'  time,  I  hope,"  said  he ; 
and  then  he  got  up,  and  his  glance  lingered  a  little  on 
her  pretty  face,  and  he  could  see  that  she  was  more 
concerned  about  his  going  away  than  about  the  money 
he  had  given  her. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  35 

"  Come  back  soon,  Uncle  Michael,"  she  said,  as  she 
stood  at  the  door  with  him  for  a  moment. 

"  Suppose  I  didn't  —  you'd  be  all  right,  you  know, 
my  dear.  If  I  live  I'll  send  you  money;  and  if  I  don't, 
you're  my  legal  heir.  I'll  write  to  my  solicitors  and 
tell  them  about  you  before  I  leave  New  York.  Take 
care  of  your  Eugenias,  and  don't  trust  that  Varasdin 
too  much.  I  heard  things  I  don't  like  about  him  to- 
day. I'm  glad  to  have  done  with  him  as  far  as  busi- 
ness goes.  I  dare  say  he'll  do  in  private  life." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Madame  Varasdin  ?  "  said 
Amabel  rather  anxiously. 

"  I  think  she's  a  clever  woman,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers, 
signing  to  a  cab-driver.  "  She  will  tell  you  how  to 
dress  and  where  to  live,  and  that  is  all  you  want  of 
her.  I  could  see  she  was  furious  because  her  husband 
wouldn't  keep  his  Eugenias.  She  has  the  wit  to  be- 
lieve in  me.  I'm  not  going  to  take  you  with  me  now 
because  I  must  race  the  clock,  and  you'd  be  in  my 
way.  You  talk  to  Madame  Varasdin  about  a  board- 
ing-house, and  settle  in  somewhere  to-night.  I  shall 
be  back  before  you've  time  to  turn  around.  Good- 
bye." 

Mr.  Ferrers  kissed  his  niece  and  took  off  his  hat  to 
the  Varasdins,  who  were  approaching  the  door.  He 
showed  the  cab-driver  a  twenty-franc  piece,  and  told 
him  what  he  must  do  to  get  it,  and  so  in  a  twinkling 
he  clattered  out  of  the  narrow  side-street  into  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli.  Amabel  watched  the  cab,  and  then  walked 


36  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

slowly  towards  the  Boulevards  with  the  Varasdins. 
She  felt  forlorn. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 
said  M.  Varasdin. 

"  My  uncle  told  me  to  make  inquiries  about  a  pen- 
sion," said  Amabel.  "Do  you  know  of  one?" 

"  How  would  you  like  to  come  and  stay  with  us  ?  " 
said  Mme.  Varasdin. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  37 


V 


"  WITH  you  ? "  repeated  Amabel,  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised and  puzzled.  The  proposal  was  made  in  such 
a  business-like  tone  that  she  guessed  a  business-like 
idea  must  be  at  the  back  of  it ;  and  she  looked  at  Mme. 
Varasdin's  hat  and  gown  and  jewels,  and  wondered. 

"  We  have  a  flat  in  the  best  part  of  Paris,"  con- 
tinued Mme.  Varasdin.  "  From  our  balcony  you  can 
see  Mont  Valerien  if  you  look  one  way,  and  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe  if  you  look  the  other.  We  are  close  to 
the  Bois." 

"  But  surely  I  should  be  in  your  way  ? "  said 
Amabel. 

"  No,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  We  have  often  had 
some  one  with  us  for  a  time.  When  my  old  friend, 
Baron  Rosenmeyer,  went  on  a  financial  mission  to 
Turkey,  he  confided  his  only  daughter  to  my  care.  He 
paid  me  —  what  is  it  in  your  English  money  ?  —  seven 
guineas  a  week." 

Twenty-four  hours  ago  Amabel  would  have  known 
that  Mme.  Varasdin  asked  too  much;  but  the  day's 
work  had  left  her  ideas  about  money  quite  topsy- 
turvy. In  a  city  where  people  paid  five  guineas  for 
a  straw  hat  trimmed  with  a  couple  of  quills,  and 
thirty  guineas  for  a  cashmere  gown,  a  guinea  a  day 


38  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

for  board  and  lodging  sounded  almost  moderate.  She 
had  a  pocketful  of  money,  her  uncle  had  promised  her 
a  cheque,  and  she  had  the  thousand  Eugenias. 

"  If  you  are  quite  sure  I  shall  not  be  in  your  way  — " 
she  began  again,  embarrassed  by  the  difficulty  of  re- 
jecting the  idea  and  uncertain  whether  she  fancied  it. 

"  Come  and  try,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  If  you 
don't  like  us,  you  can  any  day  go  to  a  pension;  but 
I  think  you  will  like  us.  I  am  sure  your  uncle  would 
be  glad  to  hear  you  were  with  me,  and  not  with  stran- 
gers." 

So  the  matter  was  settled,  and  Amabel  went  back 
to  the  hotel  and  collected  her  things,  and  at  seven 
o'clock  she  was  driving  out  to  Mme.  Varasdin's  flat 
in  the  Avenue  Ernani.  It  was  still  light,  and  as  she 
drove  across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  up  the 
Champs  Elysees,  she  felt  glad  that  she  was  to  stay 
in  this  beautiful,  happy-looking  city,  where  she  would 
see  the  golden  side  of  life,  she  who  had  seen  the  drab 
side  ever  since  she  could  remember.  She  was  adrift 
here,  but  she  would  have  been  adrift  in  London  too, 
for  she  had  no  friends  there.  The  few  friends  left 
to  her  lived  in  a  grimy  little  Lancashire  town,  where 
her  parents  had  lived  and  struggled  with  debt,  and 
died.  She  loved  her  own  country,  but  her  memories 
of  it,  though  they  were  tender,  were  sad.  Her  drive 
through  Paris  on  this  brilliant  evening  was  like  a 
dancing  tune  that  sets  your  spirits  dancing  to  its  own 
measure. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  39 

Mme.  Varasdin  received  her,  and  took  her  into  a 
small  drawing-room  that  communicated  with  a  larger 
one  by  means  of  glass  doors.  It  had  a  parqueted 
floor,  the  inevitable  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece,  a 
walnut  centre  table,  and  some  damaged-looking  red 
satin  chairs. 

"  This  is  the  room  I  shall  give  you,"  said  Mme. 
Varasdin.  "  The  bedstead  will  be  brought  down  from 
the  attic  after  dinner;  and  there  is  a  washstand  too, 
the  very  one  I  bought  for  Amalie  von  Rosenmeyer. 
You  see  your  window  opens  on  to  the  balcony,  so  you 
will  have  a  fine  view." 

Amabel  thought  she  would  rather  have  had  a  ward- 
robe and  a  chest  of  drawers.  An  anteroom  with  a 
table  and  chairs  did  not  come  up  to  her  British  ideas 
of  comfort  and  privacy  so  well  as  a  Bloomsbury  attiq 
where  you  can  lock  your  one  door  and  put  away  your 
clothes.  The  doors  leading  into  the  salon  were  cur- 
tained, but  she  could  find  neither  key  nor  bolt  to  them ; 
and  through  her  window  she  could  see  the  boots  of 
some  one  sitting  on  the  balcony. 

"  Mr.  Newby  is  here,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  He 
will  dine  with  us.  It  is  not  necessary  to  dress  for 
dinner.  If  you  take  off  your  hat  you  will  be  ready." 

Amabel  thought  that,  under  the  circumstances,  a 
more  prolonged  toilet  would  have  been  difficult  to 
manage;  so  she  took  off  her  hat  and  then  followed 
her  hostess  on  to  the  balcony.  The  boots,  she  found, 
belonged  to  Mr.  Newby,  who  rose  to  greet  her.  He 


40  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

looked  younger  than  ever,  and  when  he  saw  his  hos- 
tess's tea-gown  he  stuck  his  monocle  into  his  eye  and 
said  — 

"  I  say,  Madame  Varasdin !  what  a  rippin'  dress  and 
what  rippin'  flowers !  Did  you  have  the  flowers  made 
for  you  ?  I  never  saw  any  like  'em !  " 

For  Mme.  Varasdin's  toilet  had  not  been  accom- 
plished by  taking  off  a  hat.  She  wore  a  loose  green- 
ish-blue gown  that  hung  as  Amabel  had  never  seen  a 
gown  hang  before,  and  chains  of  uncut  turquoises  and 
great  jewelled  clasps  and  flowers  with  all  the  blues 
and  greens  of  heaven  blended  in  their  petals. 

"  They  are  ixias,"  said  Anastasie,  and  then  M.  Va- 
rasdin appeared  and  they  went  in  to  dinner. 

It  was  a  very  good  dinner,  but  Amabel  did  not  know 
whether  the  talk  that  went  on  was  good  or  bad,  be- 
cause she  could  not  follow  it.  She  was  never  quite 
sure  whether  people  or  speculations  or  both  together 
were  being  discussed,  and  she  felt  rather  pleased  when 
Mr.  Varasdin  coupled  together  two  names  she  had 
heard  before,  and  told  Mr.  Newby  that  Mexican  Jem 
had  cleared  out  of  Eugenias,  and  that  instead  of  ris- 
ing like  rockets  they  were  dropping  like  sticks. 

"  I  suppose  even  Mexican  Jem  may  make  a  mis- 
take," said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  Well,  I've  left  them  alone,"  said  M.  Varasdin. 
"  I'm  afraid  of  a  gamble,  and  I  don't  mind  who 
knows  it." 

"  What  will  happen  to  my  Eugenias  if  they  drop 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  41 

like  sticks  ?  "  said  Amabel.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  entered  into  the  conversation. 

"  Your  Eugenias  ?  "  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  My  uncle  gave  me  a  thousand,"  said  Amabel,  and 
she  opened  the  bag  hanging  at  her  side  and  passed  the 
certificate  across  the  table  to  Mr.  Newby.  He  glanced 
at  it  and  was  going  to  pass  it  back,  when  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin  took  it  from  him. 

"  Sell  them  to  me  to-night  for  five  hundred 
pounds,"  she  said ;  "  I  love  a  gamble." 

"  Don't  do  it,"  said  Varasdin,  addressing  his  wife 
with  such  sudden  and  violent  excitement  that  his  two 
guests  felt  quite  alarmed.  "  Don't  do  it.  Mexican 
Jem  has  got  even.  So  have  I,  and  we  know  what  we 
are  about.  Mr.  Ferrers  has  given  mademoiselle  a 
bagatelle.  In  a  fortnight  they  may  not  be  worth  five 
pounds.  Besides,  where  will  you  get  five  hundred 
pounds?  Do  you  think  I  will  give  five  hundred 
pounds  for  such  wickedness?  Do  you  think  I  have 
them  to  give?  Will  you  pay  for  your  own  gambles, 
then,  madame?  You  always  think  you  know  best  and 
that  I  am  a  fool,  but  I,  Hyacinth  Louis  Varasdin,  tell 
you  there  is  nothing  in  Eugenias,  nothing  at  all." 

He  brought  his  hand  down  on  the  table  with  such 
a  bang  that  his  wine  glasses  tottered,  and  the  maid- 
servant nearly  dropped  the  dish  in  her  hands.  Anas- 
tasie  only  blinked  at  her  husband. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Varasdin,"  said  Mr. 
Newby,  in  his  queer,  high,  young  voice.  "  I  believe 


42  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

they'll  come  out  right  in  the  end.  If  any  one  had 
chucked  a  thousand  at  me  I  should  stick  to  'em." 

"  I  must  stick  to  them,"  said  Amabel,  restoring  the 
certificate  to  her  purse.  "  My  uncle  told  me  not  to 
sell  them  till  he  wired." 

"  You  must  take  care  of  your  purse,  then,"  said  Mr. 
Newby.  "  Any  one  who  stole  it  could  sell  them. 
They're  bearer  shares." 

"  What  disagreeable  ideas  you  have,"  said  Mme. 
Varasdin,  getting  up  from  table. 

But  Mr.  Newby's  manner  had  put  Amabel  uncom- 
fortably on  her  guard,  and  for  at  least  a  week  she 
slept  with  her  purse  under  her  pillow.  She  did  not 
know  what  degree  of  distrust  her  fellow-countryman 
meant  to  instil,  or  which  member  of  the  household  in- 
spired it,  but  she  thought  it  could  not  be  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin. Mr.  Newby's  case  with  regard  to  her  was 
plain,  and  what  puzzled  Amabel  was  M.  Varasdin's 
alternate  blindness  and  fidgety  interference.  He 
fawned  on  the  young  man  in  his  presence,  and  called 
him  a  "  beefsteak  "  when  his  back  was  turned,  and 
Amabel  found  that  by  a  beefsteak  her  host  meant  some 
one  rude  and  loutish  and  dull  of  mind.  She  won- 
dered whether  Mme.  Varasdin  called  her  names  the 
moment  she  was  out  of  hearing.  Her  respect  for  the 
husband  and  wife  did  not  grow  with  her  sojourn  in 
their  house,  but  they  laid  themselves  out  to  please  her, 
and  she  was  neither  uncomfortable  nor  unhappy  as  a 
rule.  She  soon  discovered  that  they  had  dreadful  and 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  43 

frequent  scenes  with  each  other,  and  at  first,  after 
hearing  their  voices  raised  in  shrill  vituperation,  she 
used  to  feel  ashamed  to  look  them  in  the  face.  But 
they  were  so  unashamed  themselves  that  she  began  to 
take  these  storms  for  granted,  as  you  take  thunder 
for  granted  when  you  travel  to  a  hotter  climate.  They 
were  invariably  about  money,  although  Mr.  Ne why's 
name  somehow  got  mixed  up  with  them  every  time. 

Of  course  Amabel's  life  had  given  her  no  social  ex- 
perience, but  even  she  perceived  that  the  Varasdins 
were  not  in  good  position.  They  seemed  to  know  no 
French  people  at  all,  but  only  a  cosmopolitan  rabble 
of  artists  and  business  men.  The  artists  were  obscure 
and  impecunious,  and  the  business  men  came  from 
heaven  knows  where,  and  made  their  money  heaven 
knows  how.  They  would  squander  money  one  day 
and  borrow  the  next,  and  as  lief  get  the  best  of  a  bar- 
gain with  a  friend  as  with  an  enemy.  Their  women- 
kind  were  not  always  as  doubtful  and  unpleasing  as 
they  were  themselves.  The  matrons  were  often  ab- 
sorbed in  domestic  affairs  and  greatly  tried  by  the 
tips  and  downs  of  life.  There  was  one  very  fat  lady 
who  told  Amabel  that  she  never  knew  whether  her 
husband  would  come  back  from  business  with  a  dia- 
mond necklace  for  her,  or  with  a  revolver  that  he 
proposed  to  hold  first  to  her  head  and  then  to  his 
own.  She  had  been  through  every  extreme  of  for- 
tune with  him,  and  had  nearly  starved  while  he  was 
well  fed  in  an  Austrian  prison.  She  was  rather  proud 


44  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

of  the  prison  episode,  and  said  that  Mathias  had  been 
the  victim  of  a  brother's  guile.  But  when  Amabel  saw 
Mathias  she  thought  a  man  with  those  eyes  could  not 
be  without  guile  himself.  He  was  a  good-natured  per- 
son, devoted  to  his  fat  wife  and  his  grown-up  daugh- 
ters, and  inclined  to  make  a  pet  of  Amabel.  Just  at 
present  he  was  living  in  great  magnificence  on  the 
Champs  Elysees,  and  the  eldest  daughter  was  about  to 
marry  a  Berlin  stockbroker.  The  Varasdins,  with 
Amabel,  were  invited  to  the  wedding  and  to  a  re- 
ception at  the  house  the  night  before. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  45 


VI 


THE  Varasdins  were  sitting  on  the  balcony  with  Mr. 
Newby  and  Amabel.  Below  them  the  long  double 
line  of  young  chestnuts  stretched  to  right  and  left  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  follow,  the  tall  white  houses  rose 
high  above  the  trees,  and  the  street  lights  flashed 
amongst  their  branches.  The  busy  traffic  of  the  city 
sounded  far  away,  and  the  people  strolling  along  the 
pavement  beneath  were  not  present  in  any  disturbing 
degree  to  the  people  on  the  balcony.  At  the  win- 
dows of  the  opposite  houses  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
inhabitants,  except  the  lace  curtains  with  which  they 
shut  themselves  in.  The  stars  were  coming  out  in 
a  clear  sky,  and  from  the  hills  beyond  the  Bois  a 
pleasant  breeze  swept  through  the  avenue  towards 
Paris. 

"  It  is  my  birthday  to-morrow,"  Mme.  Varasdin  was 
saying.  "  What  will  you  give  me,  Hyancinth  ?  " 

"  Everything  I  have  is  yours  already,"  said  Hya- 
cinth. 

"  But  you  haven't  much,"  said  Anastasie.  "  I  want 
a  string  of  real  pearls." 

"  I  will  give  you  the  pearls  and  mademoiselle  the 
Koh-i-noor  on  the  same  day.  I  can  get  one  as  easily 
as  the  other." 


46  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Pearls  are  beastly  expensive  things,"  said  Mr. 
Newby.  "  Don't  see  much  good  in  them  either." 

"  You  haven't  seen  the  gown  I  am  going  to  wear 
at  the  Gregorios',"  said  Mme.  Varasdin ;  "  pearls 
would  be  the  making  of  it." 

"How  much  is  the  gown  going  to  cost?"  inquired 
M.  Varasdin. 

"  You  will  see  when  the  bill  comes  in,"  said  Anas- 
tasie  blandly. 

"  Paris  is  a  very  costly  place,"  said  Amabel.  "  I've 
spent  all  the  money  Uncle  Michael  left  me  and  about 
half  the  cheque  he  sent.  I  can't  think  what  poor 
people  do  here.  How  do  they  exist,  Mme.  Varasdin  ?  " 

"  I  take  no  interest  in  them.  It  is  so  easy  to  make 
money  that  people  who  are  poor  are  stupid.  I  prefer 
to  contemplate  people  like  the  Gregorios.  They  un- 
derstand the  art  of  life." 

"  You  mean  they  understand  the  art  of  swindling," 
said  Mr.  Newby. 

Amabel  looked  up  rather  startled  and  expecting 
Mme.  Varasdin  to  take  offense,  but  she  only  laughed. 

"  You  like  a  man  who  sits  in  a  prison  one  year  and 
buys  a  palace  the  next,"  said  M.  Varasdin. 

"  I  like  a  man  who  can  get  into  a  palace  after  a 
prison,"  said  his  wife.  "  You  want  brains  and 
energy  to  do  that." 

Something  in  her  tone  and  glance  made  her  husband 
wince  and  then  bluster. 

"  Gregorio  is  a  rogue,"  he  shouted  ;  "  Gregorio  made 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  47 

all  his  money  out  of  that  Coal  Syndicate,  and  it  was 
one  of  the  biggest  frauds.  He  has  ruined  thousands." 

"  And  we're  all  going  to  dance  at  his  daughter's 
wedding  to-morrow,"  piped  Mr.  Newby.  "  I  suppose 
he'll  have  good  champagne." 

"  I  taught  him  how  to  play  ping-pong  the  other 
day,"  said  Amabel.  "  He  didn't  like  picking  up  the 
balls ;  he  is  so  fat.  He  is  always  very  kind,  and  when 
Jeanne  Gregorio  spilt  her  wine  on  the  governess's 
dress  I  saw  him  give  her  a  hundred-franc  note  for  a 
new  one.  Mrs.  Hunter  was  highly  respectable,  and  I 
never  had  enough  to  eat  in  her  house,  and  she  nagged 
from  morning  till  night.  It  seems  that  swindlers  are 
agreeable  people  to  live  with." 

"  Quite,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  "  as  long  as  you  drink 
their  champagne  and  pocket  their  bank  notes  and  don't 
trust  them  with  a  penny.  If  that  governess  saved  all 
her  life  for  her  old  age,  and  put  her  savings  into  his 
hands,  he'd  foist  some  of  his  rotten  stuff  on  her  with- 
out a  pang,  and  to-morrow  she'd  be  in  the  workhouse, 
and  he'd  be  giving  a  party,  and  you  and  I  would  be 
drinking  his  champagne.  That's  how  it's  done,  Miss 
Ferrers.  Be  Gregorio,  or  be  you  or  me,  but  don't  be 
some  poor  devil  who  starves  and  scrapes  and  ends  in 
the  gutter  after  all." 

"  People  are  not  forced  to  speculate ;  they  are  so 
greedy,"  said  M.  Varasdin. 

"  Oh !  of  course,  the  lamb  should  keep  away  from 
the  wolf,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 


48  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  After  all,  the  raison  d'etre  of  a  lamb  is  to  be 
eaten,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  You  like  it  yourself 
for  dinner." 

Later  on  in  the  evening,  when  Mr.  Newby  had  de- 
parted, the  husband  and  wife  still  sat  together  on  the 
balcony.  It  was  a  most  unusual  thing  for  them  to  do. 

"  I've  the  devil's  luck  lately,"  began  the  man. 

"  That's  nothing  new,"  said  the  lady. 

"  There  must  be  a  smash  soon." 

"  That's  why  I  made  a  bid  for  the  pearls." 

"  What  will  they  be  worth  if  you  get  them?  I  want 
thousands.  The  moment  I  touch  anything  it  comes 
to  grief.  The  moment  I  take  my  hands  off  it  pros- 
pers. I  tell  you  I've  the  devil's  luck." 

"  I'm  sure  I  had  when  I  married  you,"  said  Anas- 
tasie. 

"  It's  your  extravagance  that  brings  us  to  ruin," 
said  Hyacinth. 

"  I  want  money  and  I  mean  to  have  it,"  said  his 
wife.  "  I'd  rather  be  dead  than  poor.  People  who 
can't  make  money  out  of  a  world  full  of  imbeciles  de- 
serve all  the  kicks  they  get.  It  is  the  one  thing  worth 
doing,  and  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  do  it  or  go  out. 
What  is  the  use  of  health  or  beauty  or  brains  except 
as  a  means  to  money?  Life  without  it  is  a  martyr- 
dom that  lasts  as  long  as  life  itself.  I,  at  any  rate, 
care  for  nothing  else,  desire  nothing  else.  If  I  were 
a  man  I  would  have  striven  for  it  with  so  single  a 
mind,  with  such  a  fierce  determination,  that  I  tell  you 


THE    THOUSAND    EUGENIAS  49 

I  would  have  got  it.  No  obstacles  should  have  hin- 
dered me;  I  would  have  thrust  them  aside.  No  dif- 
ficulties should  have  baffled  me;  I  would  have  mas- 
tered them.  How  can  a  man  be  so  indolent,  so  dull, 
so  poor  in  spirit?  You  have  no  money?  Go  out  into 
the  market-place  and  make  some,  fool.  You  play  the 
poorest  part  of  all  —  you  wolf  —  who  never  brings 
home  his  lamb." 

"  Oh !  you  have  a  tongue,"  said  M.  Varasdin ;  "  I 
never  denied  that." 

Then  he  go  out  a  pencil  and  a  pocket-book,  and 
did  little  sums,  and  he  got  more  and  more  excited  and 
unhappy,  and  at  last  he  dashed  them  both  to  the 
ground  and  said  he  could  not  stand  this  state  of 
things  any  longer,  and  that  unless  Anastasie  came  to 
his  assistance  he  would  go  straight  downstairs  and 
throw  himself  into  the  Seine. 

"  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ?  "  said  Anastasie. 

"  Get  hold  of  money  —  somehow  —  anyhow." 

"  If  you  would  be  obliging  enough  to  throw  your- 
self into  the  Seine,  I  might  marry  Mr.  Newby.  The 
stupid  young  man  is  rich." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  drown  myself  to  please  you,"  said 
M.  Varasdin. 

"  I  am  convinced  you  will  not  drown  yourself.  It 
would  take  a  little  courage  and  perhaps  be  unpleas- 
ant." 

"  Some  day  I  shall  kill  you,"  snarled  the  man. 

Mme.  Varasdin  got  up. 


50  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I  have  often  thought  one  of  us  would  be  better 
out  of  the  way,"  she  said. 

But  next  day  a  basket  of  roses  arrived  for  her,  and 
amongst  the  roses  there  was  a  jeweller's  case,  and  in 
the  case  there  was  a  string  of  pearls  and  Mr.  Newby's 
card.  She  held  them  up  triumphantly. 

"  You  may  give  me  another  string  whenever  you 
like,"  she  said  to  Hyacinth. 

"  Mr.  Newby  is  very  gallant,"  he  observed,  and 
Amabel,  who  was  present,  looked  in  vain  for  any  trace 
of  embarrassment  in  his  manner  or  in  his  wife's.  They 
were  well  satisfied.  At  night,  when  she  went  to  the 
Gregorios',  Mme.  Varasdin  wore  the  pearls  round  her 
neck,  and  the  eyes  of  every  woman  in  the  room  fol- 
lowed her  with  longing.  The  type  of  woman  gathered 
there  would  rather  have  pearls  than  love  or  honour  or 
renown. 

"If  you  have  the  wits  of  a  sparrow  you'll  make 
money  out  of  this,"  she  said  to  her  husband.  "  Every 
one  will  think  you've  given  them  to  me.  Pearls  mean 
money,  and  money  means  credit." 

"  No  one  will  think  I  have  given  them  to  you," 
growled  M.  Varasdin.  "  Haven't  you  come  here  with 
that  English  booby  at  your  heels  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  are  dull  beyond  understanding. 
Isn't  Miss  Ferrers  at  my  heels,  too,  and  isn't  she  the 
prettiest  girl  in  the  room  ?  " 

"I  may  be  dull,"  said  M.  Varasdin;  "but  I'm 
sharp  enough  to  see  the  fellow  can't  keep  his  eyes  off 


THE    THOUSAND    EUGENIAS  51 

you.  He's  too  raw  and  silly  to  care  about  a  beautiful 
girl." 

With  this  back-hander  the  exasperated  gentleman 
sheered  off,  and  the  moment  he  did  so  Mr.  Newby  de- 
serted Amabel  for  the  lady  of  riper  years  and  more 
subtle  charm.  He  sat  down  beside  Mme.  Varasdin, 
and  looked  through  his  single  eyeglass  at  the  splendid 
rooms  and  at  the  people  moving  about  in  them,  and 
when  they  were  unusually  odd  he  asked  her  to  explain 
them.  Sometimes  he  made  a  remark  that  surprised 
her  by  its  shrewdness,  but  she  found  his  conversa- 
tion on  the  whole  extremely  dull. 

Like  most  continentals,  she  failed  entirely  to  under- 
stand a  man  of  Mr.  Newby's  type,  a  type  so  common 
at  home  that  every  playing-field  is  full  of  it,  and  every 
battle  is  fought  by  it,  and  every  ship  manned  by  it. 
He  was  one  of  the  swarm  of  clean-shaven,  clean- 
minded  English  boys,  with  brains  that  never  dazzle 
and  never  collapse,  and  a  character  that  will  neither 
tell  lies  nor  forgive  them.  Even  his  civilisation  was 
of  a  kind  she  could  not  discover  or  appreciate.  She 
saw  that  he  was  awkward  and  tongue-tied,  and  she 
did  not  understand  why  he  called  Egon  Rosenmeyer  a 
bounder.  She  thought  Egon  Rosenmeyer  charming. 
He  had  curly  hair  and  an  impudent  tongue,  his  anec- 
dotes had  to  be  whispered,  he  was  a  facile  musician, 
and  as  for  his  bonnes  fortunes,  they  were  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  countless  and  overlapping.  He 
was  always  ready  to  tell  her  about  them,  too,  and 


52  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

she  wished  he  would  sit  beside  her  instead  of  Mr. 
Newby. 

"  There's  that  little  beast  of  a  Rosenmeyer  getting 
introduced  to  Miss  Ferrers,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  How 
sick  she'll  be." 

"  Go,  and  rescue  her,  then,  and  send  Egon  to  me. 
I  like  him." 

"  How  can  any  one  like  him  ?  " 

"  What's  wrong  with  him  ?  "  asked  Mme.  Varasdin. 

But  to  explain  that  was,  of  course,  beyond  Mr. 
Newby's  powers. 

"  A  man  should  have  some  muscle,"  he  said. 

Mme.  Varasdin's  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  Mr. 
Newby's  large,  sunburnt  hand.  He  had  taken  one 
glove  off  and  wore  the  other. 

"  He  should  if  he  wants  to  be  a  railway  porter  and 
shoulder  trunks,  or  a  drayman  and  roll  about  barrels 
of  beer,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  use  muscles 
are  to  you  and  M.  Rosenmeyer,  or  what  ornament. 
It  is  a  superstition  Europe  does  not  share  with  you. 
Nowadays,  even  a  war  is  waged  with  brains  —  a  suc- 
cessful war,  that  is;  you  will  find  it  out  some  day 
when  you  are  face  to  face  with  a  civilised  people." 

"  H — m,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  He  did  not  get  up  be- 
cause he  saw  that  Amabel  was  coming  towards  them 
with  her  new  cavalier  in  tow.  Her  face  and  figure 
and  air  were  all  English;  her  clothes  and  her  coif- 
fure were  all  French;  and  so  she  was,  as  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin had  said,  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  53 

"  What  do  you  think  M.  Rosenmeyer  has  just  told 
me  ?  "  she  said.  "  Mexican  Jem  is  coming  here  to- 
night." 

"How  have  the  Gregorios  managed  that?"  said 
Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  I'm  surprised  myself,"  said  M.  Rosenmeyer.  "  Old 
Gregorio  told  me  the  moment  I  arrived.  He  keeps 
running  to  the  stairs  and  watching  for  him.  If  he  was 
expecting  a  royal  duke  he  could  not  be  in  a  greater 
fuss." 

"  If  a  royal  duke  came  here  it  would  be  to  borrow 
money,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  If  Mexican  Jem  only 
looks  your  way  you  make  it.  He  is  a  more  important 
guest  to  old  Gregorio  than  any  duke  could  be." 

"  But  who  is  Mexican  Jem  ?  "  asked  Amabel. 

"  A  financial  power,"  said  M.  Rosenmeyer. 

"  But  if  he  is  English,  how  is  it  these  foreigners 
know  him  ?  " 

'  The  whole  world  knows  him  since  he  brought  out 
the  great  El  Paso  Mine,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  Is  he  very  rich  ?  "  asked  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  If  I  had  a  year  of  his  income  I'd  never  do  a 
day's  work  again,"  said  M.  Rosenmeyer. 

"  He's  an  awfully  decent  chap,  too,"  said  Mr. 
Newby.  "  As  straight  as  they  make  'em." 

"  Oh !  do  you  believe  that  of  anybody  ?  "  said  M. 
Rosenmeyer,  who  understood  the  English  idiom.  "  I 
myself  am  strictly  honourable,  but  I  never  expect  to 
find  other  people  so." 


54  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  H — m,"  said  Mr.  Newby  again,  and  M.  Rosen- 
meyer  had  no  notion  that  the  inarticulate  English  lad 
had  taken  his  measure. 

"  I  think  Mexican  Jem  must  have  come,"  said 
Amabel.  "  There's  a  buzz  near  that  further  door." 

"  I  see  him,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  He  has  just  come 
into  the  room  with  Mme.  Gregorio." 

:'  They  crowd  round  him  so,"  complained  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin,  "  any  one  would  think  he  was  going  to  throw 
them  shares  to  scramble  for." 

She  got  up  and  went  towards  the  centre  of  the  room, 
followed  by  Amabel  and  the  two  young  men.  They 
made  a  little  separate  group  as  the  host  and  hostess, 
accompanied  by  a  tall,  distinguished-looking  man, 
steered  their  way.  Amabel's  eyes  were  uncertain  and 
astonished,  and  she  turned  to  Mr.  Newby. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  tall,  fair  man  ?  "  she  said.  "  He 
has  just  been  stopped  by  some  one." 

"  That's  him,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  That  Mexican  Jem !  "  cried  Amabel,  and  her  voice 
carried  a  little  further  than  it  should  have  done.  The 
gentleman  looked  straight  at  her  and  smiled. 

"  Why,  he  knows  you,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  He 
is  coming  to  us.  You  must  present  him  to  me." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  55 


VII 


"  OF  course  he  knows  me,"  said  Amabel.  "  It  is 
Mr.  Sheringham.  I  never  heard  him  called  Mexican 
Jem.' 

"  Then  you  didn't  keep  company  with  the  Stock  Ex- 
change," said  Mr.  Newby,  and  the  next  moment  he 
and  Amabel  were  shaking  hands  with  the  guest  of  the 
evening.  Madame  Varasdin  edged  herself  a  little  in 
front  of  Amabel  as  soon  as  she  could,  and  set  herself 
to  capture  Mr.  Sheringham.  She  could  not  distinguish 
between  simple  and  simpleton,  and  she  expected  to  play 
with  the  three  people  born  under  the  Union  Jack  as  a 
juggler  plays  with  balls,  throwing  one  away  to  catch 
the  other  and  yet  keeping  them  all  in  hand.  Large  as  her 
experience  was  of  men,  she  had  never  come  across  one 
yet  whose  directness  was  the  very  weapon  with  which 
he  turned  her  subleties,  and  whose  strength  against  her 
lay  partly  in  his  want  of  taste  for  the  exotic.  The 
impression  she  made  on  Mr.  Sheringham  was  of  a 
tall,  thin  woman,  who  had  eyes  like  a  Jap  and  such  a 
fidgety  way  with  her  hands  that  she  pulled  at  her 
handkerchief  while  she  talked  to  him.  Her  gold-em- 
broidered gown  was  no  doubt  very  fine,  but  it  was  a 
gown  that  persistently  got  in  front  of  Amabel,  and  the 
first  moment  he  could  he  walked  round  it. 


56  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Come  and  have  an  ice,  Miss  Ferrers,"  he  said,  and 
gave  Amabel  his  arm  and  walked  off  with  her. 

"  That's  Mexican  Jem,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  What 
he  wants  he  takes,  and  you  can  no  more  stop  him 
than  a  pebble  can  stop  a  steam  roller." 

"  Do  fetch  me  an  ice,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  But 
when  the  young  man  came  back  with  it  he  could  not 
find  her.  He  stood  about  for  a  time  and  felt  rather 
bored  and  then  he  went  away.  He  knew  when  he 
bought  the  pearls  that  he  was  playing  the  fool,  and 
to-night  he  knew  it  with  still  greater  conviction.  The 
lady  did  not  care  a  straw  for  him,  and  all  her  lures 
were  spread  for  his  money.  He  thought  the  game 
would  soon  come  to  an  end.  It  had  been  amusing, 
costly,  and  instructive,  and  he  was  beginning  to  tire 
of  it.  He  detested  the  husband,  and  his  admiration 
of  the  wife  was  not  the  admiration  of  esteem;  it  was 
not  even  the  tolerant,  half-contemptuous  admiration 
men  feel  for  a  sinner  who  is  her  own  enemy  and  no 
one  else's.  The  boy  had  been  fascinated  and  was 
coming  to  his  senses. 

Meanwhile  Madame  Varasdin  sat  in  a  corner  of  the 
balcony  with  Egon  Rosenmeyer  and  told  him  how 
badly  Mr.  Newby  bored  her.  The  balcony  was  fur- 
nished with  palms  and  wicker  chairs,  and  lighted  with 
Chinese  lanterns  that  were  bobbing  in  the  breeze;  and 
Madame  Varasdin  herself,  with  her  narrow  eyes  and 
clinging  gown,  looked  like  one  of  the  ivory-headed 
ladies  on  the  fan  she  had  just  unfurled. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  57 

"  He  is  as  dull  and  heavy  as  his  national  food," 
she  said,  "  and  the  girl  is  as  excellent  and  insipid.  Be- 
tween the  two  I  am  having  a  time.  Oh !  I  assure  you 
it  is  not  gay  at  home  now.  What  a  race!  And  it 
is  always  they  who  have  the  money." 

"  If  you  want  money  you  should  make  eyes  at  the 
other  one,"  said  M.  Rosenmeyer.  "  What  became  of 
him?" 

"  He  walked  away  with  mademoiselle,"  said  Mme. 
Varasdin.  "  But  they  are  astounding,  these  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  Their  tongues  are  spiritless,  their  man- 
ners are  rude,  their  flirtations  are  scandalous.  Yet 
to  all  the  world  they  give  themselves  airs." 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  agreeable,"  said  M. 
Rosenmeyer.  "  Have  you  heard  Yvette's  last  song  ?  " 

Sheringham  had  taken  Amabel  to  the  further  end 
of  the  balcony  which  ran  along  two  sides  of  the  corner 
house  in  which  the  Gregorios  lived.  He  fetched  her 
an  ice  and  some  champagne,  and  then  he  sat  down 
and  looked  at  her. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  Do  you 
remember  the  last  time  we  met  —  in  Mrs.  Hunter's 
drawing-room  —  you  said  you  were  going  to  East- 
bourne next  day  —  and  I  said  I  would  run  down  there 
too.  I  never  did.  I  was  detained  by  business." 

"  I  know,"  said  Amabel  sedately.  "  You  were  bang- 
ing the  market." 

"What?"  said  Sheringham. 


58  THE   THOUSAND    EUGENIAS 

Amabel  took  the  train  of  her  white  satin  gown  out 
of  danger. 

"  You  nearly,  upset  that  champagne,"  she  said. 

"  No  wonder.    What  do  you  know  about  markets  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  But  when  my  uncle  went  off  in  a 
hurry  to  Mexico  — 

"Your  uncle?" 

"  Uncle  Michael." 

"  Michael  Ferrers !  '  Eugenia  '  Ferrers  !  Is  he  your 
uncle?  Then  that  explains  the  cook." 

"The  cook!     Oh!  do  you  mean  Mrs.  Pugsley?" 

"  I  dare  say  I  do,"  said  Sheringham.  "  I  made  her 
acquaintance  last  Sunday.  I  wanted  to  see  you  again, 
and,  as  it  was  the  only  way  open  to  me,  I  dropped  in 
to  lunch  at  Bayswater  Square.  I  expected  to  meet 
you  at  lunch,  of  course ;  but  when  we  went  down, 
there  sat  all  those  pasty-faced  children  and  a  pasty- 
faced  old  dragon  with  them." 

"  Mrs.  Hunter  sent  me  out  of  the  house,"  said 
Amabel. 

"  So  I  was  given  to  understand,  when  I  made  in- 
quiries after  lunch." 

"  Did  she  say  I  was  horrid  ?  " 

"  What  she  said  is  of  no  importance.  At  the  time 
it  made  me  rather  angry,  and  I  suppose  I  showed 
it " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Amabel,  with  breathless  interest.  "  Did 
she  shrivel  up  ?  " 

"  Not  perceptibly.    Our  parting  was  what  you  may 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  59 

call  strained.  She  pretended  not  to  know  where  you 
were." 

"Did  you  ask  her?" 

"  Of  course  I  did." 

"  That  would  have  made  her  angry." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham  pensively,  "  there  were 
some  feathers  flying.  The  sort  of  feathers  that  do  fly 
in  drawing-rooms,  you  know.  I  hate  a  row  with  a 
woman." 

"  Oh !  did  you  have  a  row  ?  "  said  Amabel.  "  Do 
tell  me  what  happened." 

"  Nothing  happened.  I  said  it  was  downright 
wicked  to  send  a  girl  like  you  adrift  in  London  for  no 
reason  whatever,  and  that  seemed  to  annoy  her.  I 
walked  out  of  the  house  in  a  rage,  and  then  that  red- 
headed Buttons  came  tearing  after  me " 

"  Oh !    Ginger,"  said  Amabel.     "  I  like  Ginger." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham.  "  He  stopped  me 
and  said,  '  Would  I  please  wait  a  minute  and  speak  to 
the  cook?'  I  was  just  asking  him  what  the  —  what 
the  message  signified,  when  the  cook  herself  ap- 
peared." 

"  She's  an  old  dear,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  love  her 
more  than  some  fine  ladies." 

"  I  love  her  too,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham.  "  We  went 
inside  the  Square  garden,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench, 
and  she  said  she  hoped  she  wasn't  taking  a  liberty, 
but  she  thought  I  might  like  to  know  as  Miss  Ferrers 
was  gone  to  live  in  Paris  with  an  uncle  as  was  a  mil- 


60  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

lionaire.  We  were  more  than  half-an-hour  together, 
and  had  a  most  interesting  conversation.  She  told  me 
ever  so  many  things  I  wanted  to  know." 

"What  sort  of  things?" 

"  Oh !  little  things  —  about  you  —  and  your  career 
as  a  governess  to  five  pasty-faced  children  —  and  why 
she  took  to  you  from  the  first  moment  she  ever  set 
eyes  on  you  —  and  how  the  cloak  she  was  wearing 
came  from  you  —  and  that  you  were  living  with  some 
people  called  Varasdin,  in  the  Avenue  Ernani  —  and 
then  we  said  good-bye  —  she  sent  you  her  respects  — 
and  some  day  when  I  get  married,  she  is  coming  to  be 
my  cook." 

"  But  I  don't  agree  to  that,"  cried  Amabel.  "  She  is 
coming  to  live  with  Uncle  Michael  and  me  —  when  we 
settle  down  together." 

"  So  yesterday  I  came  to  Paris  and  stumbled  against 
old  Gregorio  first  thing.  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  the 
Varasdins  and  you  —  and  he  asked  me  here  to  meet 
you.  That's  my  story.  Now,  what  do  you  mean  with 
your  talk  about  banging  markets  ?  " 

"  Uncle  Michael  said  it  must  be  you  —  when  he 
went  off  in  a  hurry  —  because  Eugenias  went  down." 

"  It  wasn't  me.  Of  course,  they  went  down.  The 
reef  is  pinched  out.  They're  no  good.  Your  uncle 
must  have  lost  a  big  slice  of  his  million  over  them,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  I'm  sorry  they're  no  good,"  said  Amabel,  who  did 
not  feel  much  affected  by  the  news  of  her  uncle's  mis- 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  61 

fortunes.  The  journey  through  life  of  a  speculator 
presented  itself  to  her  mind  like  a  switchback  with 
violent  ups  and  downs  that  the  traveller  took  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

"  I'm  uncommonly  sorry  too,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham. 

"  I  have  a  thousand,"  explained  Amabel.  "  What 
does  '  pinched  out '  mean  ?  " 

"  No  gold.  I  got  the  news  through  a  private  source 
the  day  after  I  saw  you,  and  wired  from  Havre  to  sell. 
But  Mr.  Ferrers  must  have  had  the  news  soon  after 
me." 

"  My  uncle  will  be  sorry,"  said  Amabel.  "  He 
seemed  to  take  such  an  interest  in  Eugenias." 

"  They've  been  very  interesting  lately,"  said  Sher- 
ingham. "  I've  dropped  about  a  hundred  thousand 
on  them  myself." 

"  Then  M.  Varasdin  was  right,"  said  Amabel.  "  He 
was  afraid  of  them." 

"  What  sort  of  people  are  the  Varasdins  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  financier,  whatever  that  may  mean,"  said 
Amabel. 

"  I  know  pretty  well  what  it  means  in  his  case.  M. 
Gregorio  gave  me  a  confidential  sketch  of  his  friend's 
career.  It  has  been  chequered  and  sometimes  cloudy. 
I  was  thinking  of  the  husband  and  wife  together  and 
of  their  relation  to  you.  How  did  your  uncle  come  to 
place  you  with  them  ?  " 

Amabel  explained,  and  said  that  she  was  not  un- 
comfortable. 


62  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  The  lady  wears  very  fine  pearls,"  said  Shering- 
ham. 

"  Oh !     Mr.  Newby  gave  her  those,"  said  Amabel. 

Mr.  Sheringham  looked  thoughtful. 

"  I  want  to  come  and  see  you,"  he  said.  "  Are  you 
having  much  fun  ?  Do  these  people  show  you  Paris  ?  " 

"  We  go  to  theatres  and  cafes.  We  never  do  the 
things  I  am  dying  to  do." 

"  What  are  you  dying  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  go  to  St.  Germain  in  a  steam  tram  and 
gather  lilies  of  the  valley  and  Solomon's  Seal  in  the 
forest.  Jeanne  Gregorio  went  with  her  governess  the 
other  day.  She  says  it  was  like  a  journey  in  a  dream. 
You  fly  along  the  road  opposite  people  you  have  never 
seen,  past  villages  and  a  winding  river,  and  trees  and 
fields.  There  are  lovely  colours  and  effects  of  light 
and  water,  she  says,  and  then  you  arrive  at  a  palace 
and  a  forest  and  the  forest  is  full  of  flowers.  Jeanne 
Gregorio  enjoys  her  life  very  much.  Yesterday  she 
went  up  the  Seine  in  a  penny  boat  as  far  as  the  Jardin 
des  Plantes.  She  says  she  had  never  known  before 
how  beautiful  Paris  was." 

"  We  might  do  that  any  day,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham, 
and  he  suggested  that  they  should  find  Madame 
Varasdin  and  make  a  plan  for  to-morrow.  So  they 
got  up  and  walked  along  the  balcony  and  came  upon 
the  lady  still  sitting  with  M.  Rosenmeyer.  She  ac- 
cepted Mr.  Sheringham's  invitation  to  lunch,  and 
managed  with  considerable  skill  to  engage  his  atten- 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  63 

tion  and  to  exclude  the  others.  Egon  Rosenmeyer 
understood  at  once  that  he  was  ousted,  and  went  back 
to  the  salon.  Amabel  soon  began  to  think  she  had 
better  go  back  too.  She  felt  in  the  way.  She  sat 
behind  Madame  Varasdin  and  could  only  see  Mr. 
Sheringham  over  the  lady's  shoulder  and  fan,  and  she 
could  not  join  in  their  talk  because  it  was  in  French 
and  all  about  a  new  farce  she  had  not  seen.  Besides, 
Madame  Varasdin  did  not  give  her  a  chance.  Pres- 
ently the  strains  of  Jeanne  Gregorio's  violin  floated 
towards  her  from  inside  the  house  and  she  got  up. 
But  as  she  reached  the  window  she  came  into  col- 
lision with  M.  Varasdin,  who  rushed  on  to  the  balcony 
with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

"  Look !  Look !  "  he  cried  excitedly  to  his  wife. 
"  My  luck !  my  usual  luck !  or  is  it  a  lie  ?  or  was 
the  bad  news  a  lie?  Is  the  whole  thing  a  swindle, 
or  am  I  a  fool  ?  " 

"  Since  you  ask  me  —  you  are  probably  a  fool," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin,  taking  the  paper  from  her  hus- 
band's trembling  hand  and  trying  to  read  it  by  the 
light  of  the  nearest  lantern.  M.  Varasdin  turned  to 
Amabel. 

"  It  is  you  who  are  lucky  if  it  is  true,"  he 
shrieked,  and  the  idea  seemed  to  give  him  more  pain 
than  pleasure. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

"  You  hold  Eugenias,  don't  you  —  a  thousand 
Eugenias  ?  A  new  reef  has  been  struck  —  it  is  a  big 


64  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

strike  —  they'll  go  up  —  the  devil  knows  where  they'll 
go  —  I  should  have  made  my  fortune " 

He  stopped  because  his  anger  and  excitement  were 
literally  choking  him.  He  tumbled  into  a  chair, 
breathing  hard,  still  muttering  to  himself,  demoral- 
ised and  helpless.  The  paper  fluttered  from  Madame 
Varasdin's  hands.  She  was  hard  hit  too.  Mr.  Sher- 
ingham  picked  it  up. 

"  May  I  see  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Does  it  affect  you  ?  "  said  Amabel,  watching  him. 

"  I  am  in  the  same  boat  as  this  gentleman,"  he 
said,  with  a  glance  at  M.  Varasdin's  huddled  figure. 
"  I  had  my  chance  and  lost  it.  I  sold  when  there 
was  a  slump." 

"  Oh !  but  there  is  an  important  difference  between 
you  and  this  gentleman,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin  bitterly. 
"  In  your  affairs  the  matter  is  probably  a  trifle." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  65 


VIII 

AMABEL  did  not  like  M.  Varasdin,  because  he  had  a 
florid  manner  and  a  deceitful  tongue,  yet  she  some- 
times pitied  him.  He  cringed  before  his  bland, 
masterful  wife,  and,  in  spite  of  his  smiles  and  his  flat- 
tering speeches,  he  had  the  look  of  a  miserable  man. 
Mme.  Varasdin  had  hardly  spoken  to  him  as  they  drove 
home  from  the  Gregorios',  and  her  tone  when  she  did 
was  so  slighting  that  Amabel  marvelled  at  his  en- 
durance. She  left  them  as  soon  as  she  could  and 
went  to  bed,  wishing  she  was  not  so  lonely.  Her 
mind  was  busy,  her  thoughts  were  dancing;  when 
she  looked  at  the  glass  her  face  astonished  her.  It 
had  changed  as  a  hill  does  when  the  sunlight  sud- 
denly falls  there,  and  she  felt  so  happy  and  so  wide 
awake  that  she  walked  to  and  fro  in  her  room  and 
talked  to  the  dream-sister  she  had  wished  for  in 
many  a  sad  hour  and  missed  now  when  sorrow  and 
poverty  were  left  behind.  The  imaginary  sister  had 
always  been  a  person  of  sense,  however;  had  often 
kept  up  her  courage;  had  sometimes  convinced  her 
that  she  was  a  fool,  and  to-night  advised  her  to  go  to 
bed  and  to  sleep  as  swiftly  as  she  could.  "  Joy  cometh 
in  the  morning,"  said  the  sister;  and  Amabel  laughed 
as  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Meanwhile  the  Varasdins  had  gone  into  the  dining- 


66  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

room  and  turned  on  the  light.  The  man  brought  a 
bottle  of  syrup  and  a  syphon  of  soda-water  from  the 
sideboard,  and  mixed  a  glass  for  his  wife.  He  lit  a 
cigarette  for  himself,  and  filled  a  liqueur  glass  with 
brandy.  He  did  not  sit  down,  but  moved  about  the 
room  in  a  sort  of  sulky  silence,  both  defiant  and 
afraid. 

"  If  it  was  possible  for  you  to  speak  without  lying, 
I  should  like  to  know  how  much  money  you  have 
got,"  began  Anastasie,  when  she,  too,  had  brooded 
in  angry  quiet  over  the  grievance  in  her  mind. 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  ruined,"  said  her  husband.  "  Per- 
haps you  will  believe  it  when  you  see  the  chairs  and 
tables  sold." 

He  waited  a  moment  to  watch  the  effect  of  this 
admission,  before  he  added:  "and  your  jewels,  my 
dear,  they  will  be  sold  too." 

But  he  might  as  well  have  watched  a  mask  as  his 
wife's  face  when  she  did  not  wish  it  to  tell  him  any- 
thing. The  contempt  and  anger  she  took  no  pains 
to  hide  gave  him  no  fresh  clue  to  any  move  she 
proposed  to  make  in  their  present  perilous  position. 

"  What  does  this  news  mean  exactly  ?  "  she  said. 
"  Suppose  you  held  Eugenias  ?  " 

The  man  put  his  hands  to  his  temples  with  a  gesture 
of  despair.  There  were  lines  of  anger  in  his  forehead 
that  terribly  debased  his  face,  and  his  wife  turned 
her  eyes  from  him.  She  did  not  fear  his  impotent 
display  of  wrath,  but  it  was  an  ugly  spectacle. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  67 

"  I  ought  to  have  had  five  thousand,"  he  said.  "  I 
could  cut  my  throat  when  I  think  of  it." 

"  What  will  five  thousand  shares  be  worth  in  a 
week's  time  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me.  I  can't  bear  it,  I  tell  you.  If 
this  news  is  true  —  if  a  great  reef  has  been  struck, 
the  mine  is  what  Ferrers  said  it  was  —  there  will  be 
a  rush  —  how  can  I  tell  you  where  they  will  go?  — 
anywhere  —  to  fifty  —  to  a  hundred  —  it  just  depends 
on  the  news.  And  I'm  cleaned  out.  I  could  have  paid 
for  five  thousand  Eugenias  when  Ferrers  was  here; 
I  have  been  dealing  in  Americans  instead  —  and,  as 
usual,  a  panic  came.  They  have  had  my  last  franc 
—  I'm  cleaned  out." 

"  Well,"  said  Anastasie,  "  what  do  you  mean  to 
do?" 

"  What  is  there  to  do  ?  What  can  a  man  do 
without  money?  I  must  have  money,"  said  M.  Varas- 
din,  and  he  brought  down  his  clenched  hand  on  the 
table  so  heavily  that  the  glasses  clattered. 

"  Oh !  don't  bluster  when  we're  by  ourselves,"  said 
Anastasie.  "  You  have  neither  sense  nor  spirit,  and 
breaking  glass  won't  persuade  me  of  the  contrary. 
We  have  been  married  fourteen  weary  years.  I  ought 
to  know  you." 

"  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  what  you  do, 
except  squander  any  money  I  and  other  men  are 
fools  enough  to  give  you,"  said  M.  Varasdin. 

"  Nevertheless  it  is  I  who  have  the  brains,"  said 


68  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

his  wife.  "  When  you  are  in  a  mess  you  always  expect 
me  to  pull  you  out." 

"  Pull  me  out  this  time,  then.    I'm  in  pretty  deep." 

Madame  Varasdin  began  to  take  off  her  long  gloves 
with  a  slow,  delicate  care  that  preserved  their  shape. 

"  Of  course,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 
"  You  want  the  girl's  Eugenias." 

"  I  would  go  to  hell  for  them,"  said  Hyacinth  Louis. 

"  They  are  in  her  purse." 

"  How  can  I  get  hold  of  her  purse  ?  " 

"  You  wish  me  to  do  that,  of  course.  It  is  not  easy. 
Besides  —  if  we  had  them  —  would  it  be  safe  to  sell 
them?" 

"  As  safe  as  changing  a  bank-note.  I  should  go 
to  Buda-Pesth  and  sell  them  through  Uncle  Joseph. 
He  is  always  willing  to  help  a  man  over  a  difficulty. 
I  should  give  him  a  commission,  and  the  money  would 
be  in  the  family.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  family 
feeling." 

"  You  never  see  either  a  danger  or  a  mistake  until 
it  has  you  in  its  clutch,"  said  Anastasie.  "  You  were 
born  a  bungler.  If  we  get  these  shares  I  shall  take 
them  to  Uncle  Joseph  myself.  Last  time  I  saw  him 
he  said :  '  My  girl,  you  may  help  Hyacinth  on  his  feet 
twenty  times  over  and  he  will  always  return  to  the 
gutter.  He  is  a  Schlemihl.  It  is  trouble  thrown  away 
to  help  a  Schlemihl'" 

"  Get  the  shares  and  you  may  call  me  any  names 
you  please,"  said  M.  Varasdin.  "  We  will  sell  them 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  69 

and  settle  down  in  a  good  climate  and  live  easily  and 
sleep  softly.  That  is  all  I  ask.  I'm  sick  of  work  and 
struggle  and  failure." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  his  wife  grimly. 

"You  will  do  it,  then?" 

"  Is  there  anything  else  to  do  ?  " 

The  man  shrank  from  the  hatred  and  anger  in  his 
wife's  low  voice,  and  after  she  had  gone  he  drank 
some  more  brandy  and  lit  a  fresh  cigar  and  took  up  the 
evening  paper  again.  But  the  paper  contained  nothing 
that  could  lead  his  thoughts  from  his  own  misfortunes. 
Except  the  one  with  theft  in  front  of  it  he  could  not 
see  a  loophole  through  which  he  could  crawl  towards 
better  days ;  and  hitherto  his  thefts  had  not  been  of  this 
kind.  An  unscrupulous  financier  brings  more  misery 
on  people  than  any  burglar  can,  but  society  has  not 
consented  yet  to  class  them  together.  Varasdin  had 
lived  on  the  knave's  borderland,  sliding  downhill  on 
the  whole  and  yet  with  his  eyes  on  the  region  where 
men  walk  safely,  though  they  bear  a  dishonoured  name. 
He  desired  to  be  a  flourishing  rogue  and  not  to  sit 
in  gaol  again,  where  a  man  of  his  stomach  suffers 
torture.  Yet,  think  as  he  might,  he  could  see  no  way 
but  the  one  to  prosperity,  and  all  of  a  sudden  further 
suspense  and  patience  grew  intolerable.  With  the 
weak  man's  longing  for  immediate  action,  even  if  it 
is  untimely  action,  he  threw  down  his  paper,  and, 
cigar  in  hand,  marched  straight  into  his  wife's  room. 
She  had  put  on  a  thin  white  wrapper  and  was  reading 


70  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

a  novel,  and  she  looked  up  with  a  scowl  as  her  hus- 
band opened  the  door. 

"  I've  been  thinking  it  over,"  he  said.  "  We  must 
get  those  Eugenias,  and  the  sooner  it's  done  the 
better." 

"  Well  —  get  them,  then,"  said  his  wife. 

"  You  know  I  can't." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"  How  will  you  set  about  it  ?  " 

"  As  I  set  about  other  things  —  when  I  see  some 
hope  of  success." 

"  Why  can't  you  go  into  her  room  and  take  them  ? 
She  is  probably  asleep." 

"How  like  you,  to  be  satisfied  with  probability  in 
such  a  case." 

"  I  shall  have  to  get  them  myself." 

"  I  am  not  anxious  for  the  job,"  said  Anastasie,  and 
she  rose  and  came  towards  the  door  with  the  intention, 
he  surmised,  of  shutting  him  out  of  the  room.  But  he 
came  further  into  it. 

"  You  are  sure  you  understand  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  owe 
money  all  round.  I  don't  possess  a  hundred  francs, 
if  something  isn't  done  to  help  me  at  once  I'm  a  ruined 
man." 

"  You  told  me  all  this  five  minutes  ago,"  said 
Mme.  Varasdin.  "  I  suppose  that  even  if  you  are 
ruined  I  may  brush  my  hair." 

"We  shall  go  under,"  he  said,  throwing  out  his 
hands.  "  We  may  go  and  beg  in  the  streets  if  some- 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  71 

thing  isn't  done.  And  you  sit  here  and  brush  your 
hair  with  silver  brushes.  Do  you  know  what  ruin 
means?  Do  you  know  what  cold  and  hunger  are  and 
the  shame  of  rags  ?  " 

"  I  have  known,  thanks  to  you.  I  shall  know  again 
if  I  trust  to  you." 

It  seemed  from  their  glances  as  if  this  man  and 
woman  had  reached  the  last  extremity  of  hate  and 
distress ;  and  yet  to  the  man  at  least  separation  did 
not  suggest  itself  with  any  promise  of  relief.  His 
wife's  dislike  and  contempt  goaded  him  to  fury,  but 
there  was  no  one  else  in  the  world  who  could  help 
him  —  and  he  had  no  idea  of  helping  himself. 

"  If  you  sold  your  pearls  it  would  be  something," 
he  said  sullenly. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  sell  my  pearls  yet,"  she  said. 
"  When  I  do  I  shall  keep  the  money.  I  shall  not  throw 
it  out  of  the  window  —  or  give  it  to  you.  Will  you 
be  good  enough  to  go  now?  It  is  two  o'clock,  and  I 
have  a  long  day  before  me." 

"  What  have  you  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  take  Miss  Ferrers  to  Paillard's  to  lunch  with 
Mr.  Sheringham.  We  are  to  do  something  absurd  in 
the  afternoon,  something  with  a  steamboat  and  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes,  I  believe.  We  shall  be  together  all 
day,  and  in  the  evening  the  gentlemen  will  probably 
dine  here." 

"  Together  —  all  —  day,"  said  M.  Varasdin  with  a 
quiver  in  his  voice,  and  he  went  quietly  out  of  the 


72  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

room.  His  wife  listened  to  his  step  in  the  corrider 
and  heard  him  shut  his  door  and  lock  it.  Then  she 
went  to  bed  herself  and  was  soon  asleep. 

Next  day  she  took  great  pains  with  her  toilet,  but 
she  found  when  she  arrived  at  Paillard's  that  it  was 
trouble  thrown  away.  Mr.  Sheringham  only  had  eyes 
for  Amabel,  who  wore  a  white  serge  coat  and  skirt 
made  by  an  English  tailor,  and  a  white  sailor  hat. 
He  had  invited  Mr.  Newby  to  make  a  fourth,  and 
even  he  looked  again  and  again  at  Amabel,  and  said, 
in  an  undertone  to  Mme.  Varasdin,  that  if  ever  you 
did  see  a  really  pretty  girl  in  Paris  you  only  had  to 
hear  her  speak  to  discover  she  was  English  or 
American. 

"  It  is  an  acquired  taste,"  said  Anastasie.  "  Over 
here  we  don't  admire  your  solid  red-faced  dairy- 
maids. Our  beauties  have  grace  and  delicacy  and 
charm." 

Mr.  Newby  replied  with  one  of  those  little  grunts 
that  are  the  inexpressive  Englishman's  favourite  form 
of  dissent.  He  perceived  that  Amabel's  cheeks  were 
not  red,  nor  was  her  figure  solid,  but  it  did  not  seem 
worth  while  to  say  so  to  Mme.  Varasdin.  He  began 
to  talk  about  oysters  instead.  After  lunch  they  took 
two  little  open  carriages  and  drove  to  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes. 

"  We  will  come  back  by  steamboat,"  said  Mr.  Sher- 
ingham to  Amabel  when  they  had  started.  "  We  have 
the  whole  afternoon  and  evening  before  us.  I  am 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  73 

going  to  dine  with  you  too ;  Mme.  Varasdin  has  asked 
me.  It  sounds  ungrateful,  but  I  don't  like  Mme. 
Varasdin  or  her  husband  either.  I  have  accepted 
because  I  want  to  see  you  and  see  how  the  land  lies. 
I  am  not  sure  yet  whether  I  shall  have  to  go  back 
early  or  late  to-morrow.  Why  don't  you  come  back 
too?" 

"Oh!  why  should  I?"  said  Amabel.  "Uncle 
Michael  expects  to  find  me  in  Paris.  We  are  going 
to  set  up  house  together  in  New  York." 

"  That  sort  of  plan  doesn't  always  come  off,"  said 
Mr.  Sheringham. 

"  It's  a  very  pleasant  plan." 

"  I  can  imagine  a  still  pleasanter  one,"  said  Mr. 
Sheringham. 

Amabel  did  not  ask  him  to  describe  it.  His  voice, 
his  eyes,  his  manner  were  all  eloquent  of  the  desire  in 
his  heart;  and  in  a  man's  way,  without  actual  con- 
fession, he  had  been  telling  her  ever  since  they  met 
that  he  loved  her.  Her  thoughts  were  not  fixed  on 
the  city  and  its  sights,  and  when  they  got  out  of  the 
carriage  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  she  was  happy  and 
preoccupied  and  perhaps  not  very  wide  awake.  At 
any  rate  Mme.  Varasdin's  voice  and  touch,  a  few 
minutes  later,  seemed  to  rouse  her  out  of  a  dream. 

"  The  gentlemen  have  gone  off  to  speak  to  one  of 
the  keepers,"  she  said.  "  It  seems  that  we  ought  to 
have  had  some  sort  of  passes  of  admission.  I  wish 
you  would  lend  me  your  purse  a  moment.  I  have 


74  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

forgotten  to  bring  any  money,  and  I  want  to  go  to 
that  stall  and  buy  some  cakes  for  the  elephants." 

Amabel's  eyes  were  on  a  perambulating  Polar  bear, 
deep  down  below  her.  Without  looking  at  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin  she  gave  her  the  little  beaded  purse-bag  she  was 
carrying  in  her  hand. 

"  Shall  I  come  with  you  ?  "  she  said  absently. 

"  No,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  The  gentlemen  ex- 
pect to  find  us  here.  I  will  be  back  in  a  moment." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  75 


IX 


MADAME  VARASDIN  had  never  attempted  a  theft 
requiring  so  much  skill  and  effrontery.  She  had  to 
extract  the  certificate  of  the  shares  without  being  seen 
by  the  woman  who  sold  cakes  or  by  any  chance  passer- 
by; and,  of  course,  when  the  robbery  was  discovered 
she  would  have  to  take  the  line  that  Amabel  was  care- 
less, had  left  her  purse  here  and  there,  and  had 
probably  lost  her  property  out  of  doors.  She  knew 
where  to  hide  the  slip  of  paper  while  the  storm  burst, 
and  had,  in  fact,  spent  some  minutes  that  morning 
over  the  lining  of  an  old  winter  jacket  that  usually 
lay  with  other  rubbish  at  the  bottom  of  a  trunk,  in  a 
lumber  room  at  the  top  of  the  house. 

Her  past  life  contained  many  episodes  that  prepared 
her  in  some  degree  for  the  present  hour.  She  had 
stolen  pence  at  school.  She  was  the  child  of  shifty, 
thriftless  parents,  and  her  married  life  had  always 
been  unstable.  For  Amabel  she  had  no  pity,  but  only 
an  envious  grudge  of  her  youth  and  her  smiling  for- 
tunes; and  she  would  have  defrauded  the  girl  of  her 
last  penny  and  her  last  chance  without  a  pang.  She 
had  no  room  in  her  mind  for  any  needs  except  her 
own,  and  no  heart  for  any  one  else's  troubles.  She 
would  very  much  rather  have  had  a  rich  husband 


;6  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

than  a  poor  one  who  drove  her  to  run  risks.  But 
money  she  must  have.  She  could  not  work ;  she  could 
not  deny  herself ;  she  was  dainty,  delicate,  and  selfish ; 
one  of  those  who  cumber  the  earth  and  behave  as  if 
the  earth  and  everything  in  it  were  made  for  them. 

She  opened  the  bag  as  she  stood  at  the  stall,  and 
saw  that  it  contained  an  inner  pocket  with  a  separate 
clasp;  and  when  she  undid  the  clasp  she  saw  that 
the  certificate  was  wedged  tightly  inside.  It  was  a 
thick  paper,  folded  several  times,  and  yet  rather  too 
long  for  the  width  of  the  bag.  There  was  a  handker- 
chief in  the  purse  too,  and  Mme.  Varasdin  took  that 
out  and  held  it  over  the  open  pocket  while  she  appar- 
rently  felt  for  change  for  the  cakes,  and  really  tugged 
at  the  certificate.  To  find  it,  to  hold  it  in  her  hands, 
and  then  to  discover  that  it  was  jammed,  was  a  bit 
of  the  devil's  luck  she  had  not  bargained  for.  The 
woman  who  had  sold  her  the  cakes  had  wrapped  them 
up,  and  waited  patiently  for  payment.  Mme.  Varasdin 
turned  away  from  her,  stooped  a  little  over  the  purse 
as  if  to  look  more  carefully  for  the  coins  she  wanted, 
and  by  dint  of  stretching  the  inner  bag  violently  apart, 
at  last  got  out  the  paper  she  wanted.  Her  hand 
closed  over  it,  but  could  not  quite  conceal  it.  She 
hurriedly  took  some  silver  coins  from  the  purse,  kept 
the  handkerchief  covering  the  shares  for  the  moment, 
and  turned  towards  the  stall  again  to  pay  for  her  cakes. 
She  meant  to  hide  the  certificate  in  an  inside  pocket 
of  her  tailor-made  coat  as  she  walked  away,  but  she  did 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  77 

not  mean  to  let  the  stallkeeper  see  her  doing  this. 
What  she  had  done,  so  far,  had  been  done  in  a  moment 
and  unobserved,  and  the  thought  flamed  within  her 
that,  by  her  own  dexterity,  she  held  a  fortune  between 
her  fingers,  a  fortune  that,  a  minute  later,  would  be 
her  own.  She  put  the  silver  on  the  stall,  took  up  the 
cakes  and  some  copper  change  and,  as  she  did  so, 
heard  the  creak  of  footsteps  behind  her,  and  then  Mr. 
Newby's  voice  in  her  ears. 

"  Buying  nuts  for  the  monkeys,  Madame  Varasdin  ?  " 
said  he,  and  wondered  why  the  lady  started  violently 
and  afterwards  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  She  stood 
there  like  a  creature  petrified,  conscious  all  the  while 
that  Sheringham  stood  there  too,  and  that  the  hand- 
kerchief and  the  folded  paper  it  did  not  wholly  conceal 
were  still  in  her  right  hand.  The  sudden  fall  from 
success  to  utter  failure  confounded  and  enraged  her, 
but  she  did  not  lose  her  head.  She  recognised  that  for 
the  moment  it  was  failure.  When  she  had  recovered 
sufficiently  she  put  the  coppers,  the  handkerchief,  and 
the  certificate  all  together  into  the  gaping  mouth  of 
the  bag.  Then  she  shut  it  with  a  snap,  and  showed 
Mr.  Newby  a  smiling  face  as  she  gave  him  her  parcel 
of  cakes  to  carry. 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  purse  ?  "  he  said,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  bead-bag.  "  It  is  exactly  like  one  I 
helped  Miss  Ferrers  choose  in  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera 
last  week,  and  the  man  vowed  he  had  not  another." 

"  It  is  Miss  Ferrers'  purse,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 


78  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I  borrowed  it  just  now  to  buy  the  cakes.  I  had 
forgotten  my  own." 

"  She  wanted  a  big  one  because  she  carries  those 
shares  about  with  her  that  her  uncle  gave  her,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Newby.  "  I  stuffed  them  into  the  inside 
pocket  for  her,  and  I  told  her  at  the  time  she  would 
never  get  them  out  unless  she  tore  the  purse;  but  she 
won't  want  to  get  them  out  till  he  tells  her  to  sell,  and 
then  the  price  of  the  purse  won't  matter.  What  are 
Eugenias  doing  to-day,  Sheringham  ?  That  strike  had 
much  effect  yet  ?  " 

"  Sent  them  up  to  three  already,"  said  Mr.  Sher- 
ingham. 

"  Wish  I  had  a  few,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

Mr.  Sheringham  did  not  show  much  interest  in  the 
sensational  rise  of  Eugenias.  He  was  watching  Mme. 
Varasdin.  He  had  seen  her  start  when  they  came  up 
to  her ;  he  had  seen  the  paper  and  the  handkerchief  in 
her  hand,  and  he  had  seen  her  return  both  to  the  bag. 
His  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  ask  Amabel  whether  she  had  taken  the  certificate 
out  of  the  inside  pocket  of  the  purse,  and  whether 
the  purse  was  torn.  Madame  Varasdin,  however,  fore- 
stalled him. 

"  But  there  is  a  thick-folded  paper  in  the  purse," 
she  said.  "  I  got  it  out  with  the  handkerchief  just 
now  when  I  wanted  some  small  coins.  It  was  not  in 
the  inside  pocket." 

"  Bai  Jove,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  "  Miss  Ferrers  must 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  79 

have  been  playing  with  her  Eugenias.  Isn't  the  purse 
torn?" 

Madame  Varasdin  just  undid  the  clasp  and  snapped 
it  to  again. 

"I  think  it  is,  a  little,"  she  said.  "But  I  hate 
opening  any  one  else's  purse,  don't  you?  It  makes 
one  feel  as  if  one  was  reading  a  letter  meant  for  some- 
body else." 

"  I  never  tried  that,"  said  Mr.  Newby  lightly. 

"  I  wonder  why  Miss  Ferrers  carries  these  shares 
about  with  her  in  this  way,"  said  Sheringham.  "  A 
purse  is  easily  lost." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  Miss 
Ferrers  is  most  careless.  I  have  often  seen  this  one 
lying  about.  We  have  honest  servants  just  at  present, 
I  believe,  but  my  cook  is  leaving " 

"  I  don't  think  servants  would  steal  shares,"  said 
Mr.  Newby. 

"  She  might  drop  them  anywhere  —  in  a  shop  when 
she  takes  them  out  with  her  handkerchief  —  as  I  did 
just  now.  I  have  begged  her  to  be  more  careful,  but 
she  pays  no  attention  to  me.  She  sees  that  Hyacinth 
carries  papers  of  importance  in  his  pocket-book,  and 
I  suppose  she  thinks  it  is  a  safe  thing  to  do." 

"  She  usually  wears  this  purse  hanging  from  her 
waistband,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  That's  safe  enough 
—  if  she  had  left  the  certificate  where  I  put  it.  I 
wonder  why  she  was  carrying  the  bag  loose  to-day  ?  " 

"  Because  she  is  wearing  a  blouse  that  does  not 


8o  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

admit  of  a  waistband,"  explained  Mme.  Varasdin. 
"  You  should  have  chosen  a  purse  with  a  chatelaine 
hook.  That  can  be  worn  with  anything." 

"  We  thought  a  ring  safer  than  a  hook,"  said  Mr. 
Newby. 

While  they  talked  they  approached  the  bear-pit 
again,  and  Amabel  saw  them  and  came  their  way. 

"  But  you  have  not  bought  many  cakes,"  she  said, 
with  a  disappointed  air,  when  she  saw  the  little  parcel 
in  Mr.  Newby 's  hand. 

"  Madame  Varasdin  is  responsible,"  said  he.  "  We 
met  at  the  cake-stall." 

"  Come  and  get  some  more,"  said  Sheringham,  ad- 
dressing Amabel. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin ;  "  let  us  all  go  and 
buy  some  more  and  give  the  poor  animals  a  feast. 
I  adore  animals.  They  are  greedy  and  suspicious  with- 
out being  ashamed  of  it.  We  are  just  as  bad  as  they 
are  really,  but  we  make  greater  pretensions  —  the 
morality  of  men  lies  chiefly  on  their  lips." 

"  Suspicion  is  not  always  a  vice,"  said  Sheringham. 

"  It  is  always  an  unamiable  trait,"  said  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin. 

"  Then  how  would  you  catch  your  criminals  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Newby. 

"  There  would  be  no  criminals  if  society  were  less 
corrupt,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  Meanwhile,  a  police  force  is  useful,"  said  Shering- 
ham ;  and  then  they  arrived  at  the  stall  and  he  bought 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  81 

more  cakes  and  paid  for  them.  As  they  went  away 
from  it  again,  Madame  Varasdin  returned  Amabel's 
purse. 

"  Don't  let  me  forget  that  I  owe  you  a  franc/'  she 
said. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  owed  Amabel  a  good  deal. 
The  seven  guineas  a  week  the  girl  paid  regularly  for 
board  and  lodging  did  not  pay  all  the  expenses  of  the 
flat,  and  it  was  a  long  time  since  Hyacinth  Louis  had 
had  a  balance  at  the  bank.  Madame  Varasdin  often 
borrowed  money  from  her  guest,  and  hitherto  Amabel 
had  lent  it  without  protest.  Money  had  come  into  her 
hands  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  that  for  the  time 
being  she  had  grown  careless  and  let  it  slip  anyhow 
through  her  fingers.  But  she  was  beginning  to  see 
that  loans  to  her  present  host  and  hostess  were  like 
water  poured  through  a  sieve.  She  wished  her  uncle 
would  come  back  and  put  an  end  to  the  connection  for 
her,  and  she  often  wished  she  had  never  occupied  the 
room  with  the  crimson  satin  chairs.  The  Varasdins 
were,  of  course,  as  civil  as  self-interest  demanded,  and 
the  food  was  good  and  the  flat  in  a  pleasant  quarter; 
but  all  these  advantages  did  not  make  up  for  a  sense 
of  insecurity  that  she  could  not  shake  off.  Only  this 
morning,  something  had  happened  to  heighten  it. 

Any  one  who  has  to  do  with  continental  servants 
knows,  of  course,  that  they  are  not  as  determined  as 
British  servants  to  treat  the  relationship  between  em- 
ployer and  employed  from  a  purely  business  point  of 


82  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

view.  They  are  inclined  to  be  friendly  and  loquacious, 
to  take  your  interest  in  their  affairs  for  granted,  and 
if  they  like  you  or  admire  you,  to  say  so  without 
beating  about  the  bush.  Before  Amabel  had  been  a 
week  in  the  Avenue  Ernani  she  knew  that  the  Alsatian 
cook  supported  an  aged  mother,  and  that  she  was 
engaged  to  a  railway-guard  who  had  a  hot  temper 
but  a  good  heart;  and  that  Adele,  the  femme-de 
chambre,  had  been  very  unlucky  in  her  situations,  and 
had  remarked  the  day  Amabel  arrived  that  mademoi- 
selle had  a  sweet  nature  and  would,  doubtless,  be  easy 
to  please.  The  cook  used  to  bring  Amabel  a  little 
bunch  of  flowers  every  day,  and  the  femme-de-chambre 
used  to  help  her  to  dress,  and  both  girls  would  have 
gossiped  about  the  Varasdins  if  Amabel  had  not 
stopped  them  from  the  first.  But  this  morning  the 
cook  had  come  to  her  in  a  state  of  angry  excitement 
and  poured  forth  her  tale.  Amabel  did  not  find  angry 
Alsatian-French  easy  to  follow,  but  she  made  out  that 
the  cook  was  leaving  for  Alsace  to-morrow  because 
her  mother  was  ill,  and  that  she  could  not  get  her 
wages  out  of  the  Varasdins.  Bandits  she  called  them, 
among  other  things,  and  in  a  voluble  patois  she  advised 
Amabel  not  to  remain  with  such  people.  When  Amabel 
gave  her  enough  money  for  her  journey,  she  shed  tears 
and  kissed  the  girl's  hand,  and  implored  her  to  leave 
the  house. 

"  It  is  not  a  house  for  you,"  she  said  plainly ;  and 
Adele,  who  was   present,  nodded  mysteriously,   and 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  83 

said  that  she  herself  did  not  mean  to  stay  much  longer, 
whether  she  got  paid  or  not. 

"  Some  day  it  will  be  ph — tt !  "  she  said,  and  her 
dramatic  gesture  described  an  explosion  and  the  wreck 
it  leaves  behind. 

Amabel's  growing  uneasiness  was  not  set  at  rest  by 
these  remarks,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  there 
was  any  need  for  hurry.  Financial  difficulties  do  not, 
as  a  rule,  drive  you  out  of  the  house  at  an  hour's 
notice,  like  an  infectious  disease.  She  resolved,  how- 
ever, to  talk  to  Mr.  Sheringham  about  the  choice  be- 
fore her  of  finding  different  quarters  in  Paris  and 
returning  to  England.  He  was  not  an  old,  tried  friend, 
but  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  he  was  a  friend, 
and  that  the  wide  world  did  not  hold  his  match  in 
kindness,  strength,  and  wisdom.  In  her  own  mind 
she  likened  him  to  the  golden  Sigurd,  whose  eyes  were 
so  awful  to  his  enemies  and  so  kind  to  children,  to  the 
poor,  and  to  the  women  who  loved  him;  and  as  she 
walked  round  the  elephant-house  with  the  astute  finan- 
cier she  tried  to  fancy  what  he  would  look  like  in  a 
helmet  and  armour  of  gold.  She  thought  they  would 
become  him,  and  puzzled  him  considerably  by  showing 
a  sudden,  ardent,  and  irrelevant  interest  in  the  fancy 
balls  he  had  attended  and  the  costumes  he  had  chosen. 

"  I  went  as  a  clown  once,  when  I  was  about 
eighteen,"  he  remembered  with  some  difficulty. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Amabel,  profoundly  shocked.  "  How 
unsuitable !  " 


84  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I  wonder  you  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham. 
"  You  must  have  forgotten  our  first  meeting." 

That  was  so  far  from  the  truth  that  Amabel  coloured 
and  did  not  speak.  They  were  standing  in  front  of 
an  engaging  giant  elephant  with  an  appetite  for  cakes. 
They  had  been  standing  there  for  some  time.  Madame 
Varasdin  and  Mr.  Newby  had  disappeared. 

"  Do  you  remember  our  first  meeting  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Sheringham. 

"  It  was  on  Florrie  Hunter's  birthday,  when  she  had 
a  children's  party." 

"  It  was  in  the  dining-room.  Miss  Hunter  invited 
me  to  pull  a  cracker  —  a  very  stiff  one  —  I  gave  a 
sort  of  backward  jerk  over  it,  and  nearly  upset  some 
one  behind  me  who  had  a  dish  in  her  hands." 

"You  did  upset  the  custards.  Mrs.  Hunter  called 
me  clumsy  and  apologised  to  you." 

"  You  cried." 

"  No,  never !  " 

"  I  swear  I  saw  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"That's  not  crying." 

"  And  all  the  rest  of  the  evening  I  tried  to  get  near 
you " 

"  Yes,"  said  Amabel,  with  a  reminiscent  sigh ;  "  I 
know  you  did." 

"  You  suddenly  disappeared." 

"  Mrs.  Hunter  told  me  to  go  upstairs  and  stay 
there." 

"  Did  you  cry  when  you  were  upstairs  ?  " 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  85 

"  The  elephant  is  asking  for  another  cake,"  said 
Amabel.  "  Let  us  talk  about  elephants  and  not  about 
tears.  If  I  did  cry  I  am  ashamed  of  it.  I  wish  I  had 
more  courage.  I  wish  I  was  not  afraid  of  people. 
I  suppose  if  you  know  your  quarrel  is  just  you  do 
not  shrink  from  it.  I  do;  and  I  hate  myself  for  it." 

"  How  many  people  are  you  afraid  of,  and  how 
many  quarrels  have  you  on  your  hands  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Sheringham. 

"  You  should  have  gone  as  a  knight,"  exclaimed 
Amabel,  who  was  watching  his  eyes,  and  she  laughed 
at  his  momentary  want  of  comprehension.  "  Where 
are  the  others  ?  "  she  said. 

"  But  you  don't  answer  my  question,"  said  he. 

They  walked  right  round  the  elephant-house,  and 
did  not  see  the  others.  Then  they  went  out  into  the 
gardens  and  did  not  find  them  there. 

"  I  know  what  has  happened,"  said  Amabel.  "  Ma- 
dame Varasdin  has  driven  home.  She  told  me  nothing 
would  induce  her  to  travel  on  a  penny  steamboat ;  and 
I  saw  her  shudder  and  open  a  smelling-bottle  when 
we  went  into  the  elephant-house.  I  suppose  she  thought 
that,  as  you  were  to  dine  with  her,  you  would  not 
mind  escorting  me  home.  You  know,  M.  Varasdin 
does  not  dress  for  dinner." 

"  But  we  need  not  go  yet,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  You  said  you  wanted  to  see 
all  the  animals." 

"  How  is  it  you  have  time  ?     I  thought  people  like 


86  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

you  and  Uncle  Michael  never  had  time  for  anything 
but  business." 

"  Is  your  uncle  married  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Amabel,  thinking  that  her  companion 
was  irrelevant  now.  "  He  told  me  he  had  never  had 
time  to  think  about  it." 

"  I  should  have  said  the  same  three  months  ago," 
observed  Mr.  Sheringham. 

"  What  happened  three  months  ago  ?  "  asked  Amabel. 

"  We've  been  over  all  that,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham. 
"  There  was  a  children's  party  —  and  a  stiff  cracker 
—  and  upset  custards  —  and  an  angry  lady " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Amabel. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  87 


IT  was  after  five  when  they  strolled  through  the  gar- 
dens to  the  Quai  d'Austerlitz  and  took  the  first  steam- 
boat that  went  their  way.  Amabel  thought  it  was  a 
pleasant  way  of  seeing  Paris.  She  sat  on  the  clean, 
half-empty  boat  with  Mr.  Sheringham,  and  steamed 
smoothly  under  the  bridges  of  the  city  past  the  spires 
of  many  churches  and  the  facades  of  many  splendid 
buildings,  in  sight  of  the  city  traffic  and  sometimes 
in  hearing  of  the  city  wheels.  Evening  lights  set  the 
city  and  the  sky  afire,  and  a  summer  breeze  blew  up 
the  river  from  seawards  and  met  them  freshly.  Mr. 
Sheringham  had  led  Amabel  to  a  seat  in  the  bows, 
which  they  had  to  themselves.  It  was  a  little  way 
below  the  main-deck,  and  they  were  almost  out  of 
sight  of  other  passengers  and  quite  out  of  hearing. 
Amabel  looked  at  the  clouds  and  thought  her  own 
fate  was  as  suddenly  and  rosily  aglow  as  they  were. 
She  looked  at  the  man  beside  her,  and  wondered  where 
his  eyes  had  been  these  many  years,  and  why  she  out 
of  all  the  women  in  the  world  should  please  him.  She 
tried  to  discover  his  qualities,  and  she  entered  with 
wonder  into  the  lover's  land  where  mortals  walk  as 
gods. 

It  was  a  happy  hour  for  both  of  them.    Mr.  Shering- 


88  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

ham  had  been  too  hard  at  work  all  his  life  to  fritter 
and  diffuse  his  affections,  and  he  had  fallen  in  love, 
as  a  healthy-minded  man  often  does,  with  the  most 
ardent  belief  and  delight.  His  subtlety  was  all  finan- 
cial; in  the  human  relations  of  life  he  showed  himself 
simple  and  kind.  "  Here  by  God's  grace  is  the  one 
maid  for  me,"  says  Geraint,  the  first  time  he  sets 
eyes  on  Enid,  and  the  same  thought  had  flashed  across 
Sheringham's  mind  when  he  turned  in  a  hurry  and 
saw  Amabel's  scared  face  and  the  custard  streaming 
absurdly  down  the  worst  and  meanest  dress  in  the 
room.  Now  she  sat  beside  him  fine  and  radiant  as  a 
lily.  Without  his  aid  Fortune  had  turned  her  wheel. 
But  the  change  that  meant  so  much  to  her  hardly 
engaged  his  thoughts.  Poor  or  rich,  she  was  the  one 
maid  for  him.  He  talked  to  her  about  his  home  and 
his  people,  and  she  told  him  about  the  loneliness  and 
the  poverty  she  had  passed  through.  When  words 
failed  them,  they  watched  the  city  and  the  sky. 

"  I  wish  I  had  more  courage,"  said  Amabel  sud- 
denly. "  There  is  a  disagreeable  thing  I  ought  to  do, 
and  I  believe  I  shall  just  go  on  from  day  to  day  not 
doing  it  —  unless  something  happens  to  make  it  easier." 
"  Is  it  a  very  disagreeable  thing  ?  "  asked  Shering- 
ham. 

"  I  want  to  get  away  from  the  Varasdins." 
"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.    I  don't  like  either  of  them." 
Masculine  approval  is  always  bracing  and  pleasant 
to  the  feminine  mind,  especially  when  the  encouraging 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  89 

man  happens  also  to  be  the  only  man  in  the  world  of 
any  importance. 

"  It  is  so  difficult  to  tell  Madame  Varasdin,"  Amabel 
went  on.  "  Besides  it  does  seem  unkind  to  leave  them 
just  when  my  money  is  so  necessary  to  them.  If  M. 
Varasdin  began  to  prosper  again,  I  should  not  hesi- 
tate. You  know  about  business  matters,  Mr.  Shering- 
ham.  Is  he  ever  likely  to  get  on  ?  " 

"  You  can  never  say  with  a  man  like  that." 
"  Couldn't  you  put  him  in  the  way  of  things  ?  " 
"  I  would  rather  not  have  any  dealings  with  him." 
"  Well  —  I  hope  Uncle  Michael  will  soon  come  back. 
I  am  glad  you  are  not  operating  against  him,  as  he 
thought.    I  wrote  to  him  this  morning  and  told  him 
you  had  lost  a  hundred  thousand  over  Eugenias,  and 
that  you  were  very  pleased  for  his  sake  to  hear  about 
the  new  reef." 

"  Oh  !    Did  you  ?  "  said  Sheringham. 
"  Yes,"  said  Amabel.     "  And  I  asked  him  to  send 
you  a  few  shares  if  they  went  up  —  instead  of  those 
you  sold  so  badly,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  expect  him  to  do  that,"  said 
Sheringham,  taken  aback.  "  It  isn't  usual." 

"  I  am  sure  Uncle  Michael  would  like  to,"  continued 
Amabel.  "  He  seemed  to  be  wrapped  up  in  Eugenias, 
and  it  would  vex  him  to  think  any  one  lost  over  them, 
especially  any  friend  of  ours.  He  carries  them  about 
in  his  pocket  like  love  letters.  He  gave  me  a  thousand. 
I'll  show  them  to  you." 


90  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Yes,  do,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham,  and  he  watched 
her  open  the  bag.  She  looked  as  much  taken  aback 
as  he  expected. 

"  How  very  odd,"  she  said.  "  Some  one  has 
wrenched  them  out  of  the  inner  pocket,  and  they 
were  in  so  tight  —  the  lining  is  all  torn  and  the  frame 
twisted " 

She  turned  the  contents  of  the  bag  into  her  lap  and 
examined  it.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Sheringham  looked  at 
the  certificate  of  the  shares. 

"  It  must  have  been  Madame  Varasdin  when  I  lent 
her  the  purse,"  she  went  on.  "  She  has  always  been 
rather  keen  about  Eugenias  and  angry  with  her  hus- 
band because  he  had  none.  I  suppose  she  wanted  to 
look  at  them.  But  how  vexatious  it  is.  I  only  bought 
this  bag  a  week  ago,  and  it  cost  fifty  francs.  Such 
things  are  so  dear  in  Paris.  I'll  never  lend  it  to 
Madame  Varasdin  again.  Do  you  think  it  can  be 
mended  ?  " 

"  I  daresay.  But  why  don't  you  sell  your  shares 
and  invest  the  money  —  not  directly  perhaps,  but  when 
they  go  higher  still?  And  you  should  keep  them  in  a 
safe  place.  You  know  they  are  bearer  shares.  If  they 
were  stolen  you  would  probably  never  recover  them." 

"  Stolen !  "  said  Amabel ;  and  he  saw  that  he  had 
frightened  her  and  he  repented  of  it.  He  cared  very 
little  whether  she  came  to  him  with  a  thousand  Euge- 
nias in  her  hand  or  with  never  a  penny.  The  important 
thing  was  that  she  should  come. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  91 

"  Oh,  well ! "  he  said,  "  I  can't  see  why  you  should 
carry  them  about." 

"  Uncle  Michael  told  me  to  keep  them  till  he  wired 
and  then  to  sell  them  at  once.  But  he  was  in  such  a 
hurry,  he  never  told  me  where  to  sell  them  —  at  least 
he  said  something  about  a  respectable  stockbroker  — 
somehow  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  M.  Varasdin." 

"I'm  a  stockbroker,  you  know,"  said  Sheringham. 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  "  said  Amabel.  "  Then  the  mo- 
ment Uncle  Michael  wires,  I'll  post  this  paper  to 
you." 

"You  may  do  that,"  said  Sheringham,  "but  you 
should  also  wire  your  uncle's  instructions.  Then  I 
shall  know  what  to  do." 

He  wished  she  could  give  the  certificate  into  his 
charge  at  once ;  but  just  then  the  collector  came  round 
for  fares,  and  when  he  had  gone  again  Amabel  put 
her  loose  money  and  her  Eugenias  back  into  the  bag. 
She  called  Mr.  Sheringham's  attention  to  the  bridge 
they  were  approaching  —  their  talk  shifted,  and  the 
opportunity  passed  by.  His  suspicions  were  so  vague, 
and  his  uneasiness  so  undetermined,  that  he  was  in- 
clined to  wait  rather  than  to  alarm  her  seriously.  He 
had  seen  the  shares  in  Madame  Varasdin's  hands,  but 
the  very  audacity  of  her  attempt  baffled  him.  Amabel 
would  have  missed  the  shares  by  this  time;  she  must 
have  raised  a  hue-and-cry;  what  would  the  lady  who 
borrowed  the  purse  have  said  in  her  own  defence? 
Sheringham  saw  with  a  flash  how  little  she  would 


92  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

need  to  say  as  long  as  the  shares  were  not  found  in 
her  possession  or  their  sale  traced  to  her. 

"  I  hope  you  will  soon  come  back  to  England,"  he 
said  to  Amabel ;  and  that  was  all  the  outcome  just  at 
present  of  his  train  of  thought. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  flat,  Madame  Varasdin 
sat  on  the  balcony  in  a  poppy-red  gown.  She  had 
twisted  Mr.  Ne why's  pearls  round  her  throat,  and  she 
wore  other  pearls  in  her  hair,  and  for  the  time  being 
she  had  got  rid  of  Mr.  Newby.  She  entertained 
Sheringham  while  Amabel  changed  her  gown,  and 
when  the  girl  came  back  it  seemed  as  if  the  witch  had 
bewitched  him.  Anyhow,  until  the  other  men  arrived, 
she  held  his  attention,  paid  him  brazen  court,  and  let 
Amabel  sit  silent  and  neglected.  The  girl,  unversed 
in  the  ways  of  men,  was  puzzled  by  his  temporary 
capture;  and,  after  dinner,  when  Madame  Varasdin 
went  back  to  her  seat  on  the  balcony  and  invited  the 
three  men  to  follow  her,  Amabel  stayed  behind  in  the 
salon.  She  opened  the  piano,  and  began  to  play  softly 
to  herself,  without  music  and  without -lights.  Voices 
and  laughter  reached  her  from  outside,  and,  through 
an  open  window,  she  could  just  see  a  scarlet  sleeve 
whenever  Madame  Varasdin  lifted  her  cigarette  to 
her  lips.  All  through  dinner  the  lady  had  led  the  talk 
and  turned  it,  while  the  men  responded  and  were  en- 
tertained. With  the  best  will  in  the  world  Amabel 
could  not  take  her  part,  and  by  the  end  of  the  meal 
her  silence  had  become  a  little  dejected.  Once  or  twice 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  93 

Mr.  Sheringham  had  looked  across  the  table  at  her 
inquiringly,  as  if  he  saw  that  something  was  the  matter 
and  wondered  what;  but  his  hostess  always  managed 
to  divert  his  attention.  As  a  friend  for  Amabel  he 
did  not  change  his  opinion  of  Madame  Varasdin,  but 
he  began  to  understand  why  young  gentlemen  pre- 
sented her  with  pearls.  Her  way  of  telling  gay  French 
stories  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  serene  brow,  was 
just  what  would  make  a  young  gentleman  feel  that 
he  was  really  seeing  life.  At  one  moment  Mr.  Newby 
had  been  so  well  amused  that  he  was  obliged  to  giggle. 
M.  Varasdin  sat  at  his  own  table  with  the  air  of  a 
lay  figure  that  smiles  whatever  face  you  show  it,  and 
smiles  without  joy  or  understanding. 

While  Amabel  played,  it  grew  so  dark  that  she 
could  hardly  distinguish  the  notes  of  the  piano,  or  the 
furniture  in  the  room;  yet  her  heart  gave  a  leap  of 
hope  and  delight  as  she  heard  some  one  come  slowly 
towards  her.  She  could  just  make  out  that  it  was 
Mr.  Sheringham.  He  sat  down  beside  her,  while  she 
finished  an  adagio  from  a  Beethoven  Sonata. 

"  Why  do  you  stay  in  here  by  yourself  ?  "  he  said. 
"Don't  you  like  the  balcony?" 

"  Is  it  pleasanter  out  there  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  if  you  came." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Amabel,  and  she  was  shutting 
the  lid  of  the  piano  when  she  felt  an  arresting  touch 
on  her  arm. 

"  There  is  no  hurry  now,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham. 


94  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Let  us  stay  here.  Why  were  you  so  silent  all  through 
dinner,  and  why  do  you  sit  here  alone  ?  " 

"  What  a  beautiful  dress  Madame  Varasdin  is  wear- 
ing to-night,"  said  Amabel.  "  But  I  think  she  should 
have  worn  red  poppies  in  her  hair  —  big,  wide  open 
ones  in  a  sort  of  crown.  What  a  clever  woman  she 
is,  and  how  well  she  entertained  you  all  with  her  talk. 
I  wish  I  understood  French  better  and  could  follow 
everything  she  says !  " 

"  Oh,  is  that  it?  "  said  Mr.  Sheringham.  "  Do  you 
really  believe,  because  a  man  looks  and  laughs  and 
listens  —  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you  across  a  dinner 
table.  I'm  past  that.  Here,  by  ourselves,  in  the 
dark " 

He  stopped  short,  and  stared  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  where  some  one  moved  swiftly  through  the 
darkness  and  turned  on  the  light. 

"  We  want  a  little  music,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

Amabel  relinquished  her  place  at  the  piano  without 
a  word.  The  untimely  interruption  did  not  anger  her 
as  it  did  Sheringham.  He  "  had  the  expression  of 
Damn  all  over  him."  The  other  men  came  in  from 
the  balcony;  the  maid  who  had  remained  brought  in 
a  tray  with  syrup  and  orangeade,  and  Mme.  Varasdin 
began  to  sing.  M.  Varasdin  pressed  his  sweet  drinks 
on  the  two  Englishmen,  and  looked  rather  hurt  be- 
cause they  refused  them.  Amabel  took  her  glass  of 
iced  orangeade  to  the  open  window,  stood  there  a 
moment,  and  then  went  out  on  the  balcony.  She  had 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  95 

not  stood  there  long  when  Mr.  Sheringham  joined 
her. 

"  We  can't  talk  here,"  he  said,  still  angry.  "  Some 
of  them  will  be  on  us  directly  with  their  syrup  and 
their  silly  songs.  What  business  has  that  woman  to 
sing  such  songs  when  you  are  under  her  roof?  But 
I  suppose  you  don't  understand  much  French." 

"  I  do,"  said  Amabel  indignantly.  "  I  took  three 
French  prizes  at  school,  and  when  I  go  to  the  Frangais 
I  can  follow  quite  well  if  I  get  the  play  and  read  it 
beforehand.  I  think  French  is  the  most  beautiful 
language  there  is.  I  enjoy  hearing  the  great  actors 
as  much  as  I  enjoy  music.  But  I  can't  follow  all  that 
variety  slang  yet.  I  daresay  I  shall  soon." 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  thought  Sheringham ;  but 
he  only  said  that  he  wanted  to  talk  to  Amabel  to- 
morrow afternoon  and  come  to  some  arrangement 
that  would  take  her  back  to  England  immediately. 

"  To-morrow  is  Wednesday,"  said  Amabel.  "  In 
the  morning  we  often  go  to  the  Avenue  des  Aca- 
cias." 

"  I  have  two  important  appointments  in  the  morn- 
ing," said  Mr.  Sheringham.  "  It  would  not  be  fair  to 
other  people  to  give  them  up.  Besides,  I  particularly 
want  to  see  you  by  yourself.  It  is  no  use  my  coming 
here.  Will  you  be  in  the  Avenue  des  Acacias  at  four 
o'clock?" 

"  I  will  if  you  can  promise  to  be  punctual,"  said 
Amabel.  "  I  should  not  like  to  wait  about  long  by 


96  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

myself.  That  part  of  the  Bois  is  rather  deserted  in 
the  afternoon." 

"  If  you  come  at  four  you  shall  find  me  waiting  for 
you  —  just  at  this  end  of  the  Avenue,  you  know," 
promised  Mr.  Sheringham. 

Directly  he  had  gone  Amabel  went  to  her  own  room. 
As  long  as  the  piano  was  going  there  was  no  chance 
of  sleep,  but  she  was  too  happy  to  mind  that  at  all. 
Since  her  parents  died  she  had  been  lonely  and  un- 
loved, and  until  lately  very  poor ;  and  now,  to-morrow 
promised  what  her  heart  desired.  It  hardly  crossed 
her  mind  that  her  lover  was  a  rich  man;  when  it  did, 
the  idea  was  comfortable,  and  translated  itself  into 
pretty  frocks  and  rooms  and  the  delightful  exercise 
of  generosity,  and,  above  all,  into  an  emblem  of  her 
lover's  qualities.  She  took  pride  in  his  success  and 
power.  She  fell  asleep  thinking  of  him,  and  was  half 
roused  when  Mr.  Newby  departed,  slamming  the  front 
door.  Then  the  peace  of  the  night  came  over  the  flat 
and  she  slept  profoundly.  What  woke  her  she  never 
knew;  what  time  it  was  she  could  not  tell.  But  the 
dawn  had  not  risen,  the  stars  were  still  blinking  in 
the  sky  when,  without  moving  or  starting,  she  opened 
her  eyes.  Some  one  had  softly  turned  the  handle  of 
the  door  and  was  creeping  across  the  room  towards 
the  bed. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS  97 


XI 


AMABEL  did  not  stir.  She  lay  facing  the  open  door, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dark  figure  of  Mme.  Varasdin, 
who  came  as  softly  as  a  ghost  towards  the  bed.  She 
came  straight  on  without  hesitation  or  stumbling,  and 
yet  it  seemed  to  Amabel  that  she  took  a  long  while 
to  cross  the  parqueted  floor  on  which  her  bare  feet 
made  so  little  sound.  The  girl  felt  horribly  afraid  and 
inclined  to  start,  or  speak,  or  scream.  The  manner  of 
the  woman's  entry  and  her  cat-like  tread  were  alarming, 
so  was  the  dim  outline  of  her  face,  set  in  resolve  and 
inhuman.  Amabel  looked  at  her  hands.  One  held  her 
gown  from  the  floor,  one  hung  at  her  side,  but  it  was 
too  dark  to  see  whether  they  were  empty.  The  girl's 
heart  beat  wildly  in  her  throat;  she  felt  sick  with 
fright.  If  she  moved,  the  woman  might  fly  at  her, 
if  she  lay  still,  a  mere  thief  might  take  what  she  came 
for  and  go  away.  That  she  came  on  some  sinister 
errand  was  proclaimed  in  her  face.  Amabel  had  not 
drawn  her  thick  curtains,  and  through  the  muslin  ones 
the  starlight  came  into  the  room  just  breaking  the 
darkness. 

As  the  woman  approached  the  bed  Amabel  dared 
not  lift  her  eyelids  in  case  it  should  be  seen  that  she 
was  not  asleep,  but  she  wondered  her  anxious  breath 
and  shivering  body  did  not  betray  her.  She  lay  as 


98  THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

rigid  as  she  could,  but  her  knees  were  loosened  and 
her  hands  were  tremulous  and  cold.  She  thought  she 
could  feel  the  warmth  of  Mme.  Varasdin's  body  as 
she  bent  over  the  bed  and  cautiously  slid  her  hand 
beneath  the  pillow;  the  scent  of  violets  seemed  to  fill 
the  room.  The  hand  groping  under  the  pillow  slowly 
closed  on  something  and  was  withdrawn.  The  next 
moment  Mme.  Varasdin  was  gliding  from  the  bed 
towards  the  open  door.  She  made  no  attempt  to 
close  it. 

Relief  and  terror  and  anger  struggled  together  in 
Amabel's  mind  as  she  lay  there  indecisive  and  unhinged. 
It  was  not  murder  the  woman  was  after,  then,  but 
theft :  the  theft  of  the  Eugenias.  With  a  flash  Amabel 
saw  the  events  of  the  afternoon  in  their  real  light, 
the  request  for  her  purse,  the  removal  of  the  certificate, 
the  arrival  at  the  bear-pit  of  Mme.  Varasdin  and  the 
two  men,  and  Mr.  Newby's  remark  that  they  had  met 
at  the  cake-stall.  Without  rhyme  or  reason,  Amabel 
suddenly  found  her  fear  melting  fast  in  her  hot  indig- 
nation. She  made  no  plan,  she  took  no  care,  but 
jumped  out  of  bed  and  hurried  barefoot  into  the  ad- 
joining room.  Mme.  Varasdin  stood  close  to  an  open 
window  and  with  her  back  to  Amabel.  Her  head 
stooped  a  little  over  her  hands,  but  as  the  girl  came 
up  behind  her,  she  raised  her  right  arm  and  was  just 
about  to  throw  the  purse  into  the  road,  when  Amabel 
caught  her  wrist  and  saved  it.  Mme.  Varasdin's  cry 
of  surprise  had  rage  as  well  as  fear  in  it,  and  for  a 


THE   THOUSAND    EUGENIAS  99 

moment  Amabel  wished  she  had  not  followed  her. 
The  first  look  in  the  woman's  eyes  was  murderous, 
and  her  free  hand  went  up  towards  the  girl's  throat. 
Amabel  stepped  back  with  a  shudder  and  would  have 
fled  if  Mme.  Varasdin's  manner  had  not  undergone  a 
swift,  curious  change.  She  allowed  the  purse  and  the 
shares  to  fall  to  the  ground,  pressed  her  uplifted  hands 
to  her  temples,  and  said,  in  a  voice  of  sleepy  bewilder- 
ment— 

"'What  has  happened?    Where  am  I?" 

"  You  came  into  my  room  and  stole  my  purse," 
said  Amabel.  "  I  suppose  that  paper  you  have  just 
dropped  is  the  certificate  of  my  Eugenias." 

She  picked  it  up  as  she  spoke  and  put  it  back  in 
her  bag,  and  all  the  while  she  stood  there  she  watched 
Mme.  Varasdin  in  case  she  should  make  a  sudden 
spring  and  wrench  it  out  of  her  hands.  That  lady 
now  looked  unspeakably  sad  and  surprised.  She 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  temples  again  and  sank  into 
her  chair  with  a  melancholy  groan. 

"  Terrible !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  terrible !  " 

"  It  is  disgraceful,"  said  Amabel. 

"  I  thought  I  was  safe,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  You  would  have  been  if  I  had  not  happened  to 
wake.  Some  one  in  the  street  would  have  picked  up 
the  purse.  I  should  have  had  no  proof  against  you." 

"  It  is  a  horrible  affliction,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  subject  to  it,"  said 
Amabel  —  "  kleptomania." 


ioo         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I  know  nothing  about  kleptomania.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  believe  in  it.  A  thief  is  a  thief  whatever  fine 
names  the  medical  profession  finds  for  him.  I  am  a 
somnambulist.  As  a  child  I  frequently  walked  in  my 
sleep,  and  whatever  I  dreamed  I  was  doing  I  actually 
did.  One  night  I  walked  barefoot  through  my  father's 
forest  in  the  snow.  I  was  ill  for  three  months  after 
that.  Then  the  malady  seemed  to  leave  me,  I  hoped 
never  to  return.  I  should  probably  have  thrown  my- 
self from  the  balcony  if  you  had  not  roused  me.  Other- 
wise why  should  I  be  standing  close  to  the  open 
window?  Perhaps  you  have  saved  my  life." 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  saved  my  Eugenias,"  said  Amabel. 
The  lady's  defence  was  unanswerable  at  that  moment 
and  without  further  inquiry;  and  yet  it  was  uncon- 
vincing. 

"  Take  my  advice  and  put  them  in  a  safer  place," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  I  shall  give  them  to  Mr.  Sheringham  to-morrow," 
said  Amabel.  "  I  wish  I  had  done  so  to-day  when  we 
found  they  had  been  moved." 

Mme.  Varasdin's  glance  had  neither  sleep  nor  be- 
wilderment in  it  now.  Her  narrow  eyes  closed  and 
her  mouth  was  set  in  dislike  as  she  rose  slowly  from 
her  chair. 

"  To-morrow  has  come,"  she  said.  "  It  must  be  two 
o'clock.  I  am  afraid  I  have  curtailed  your  sleep.  But 
you  need  not  be  nervous;  I  never  walk  twice  in  one 
night." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          101 

Amabel  went  back  to  her  room,  tried  the  bolts  of 
her  window  and  outer  door,  and  managed  to  push  her 
chest  of  drawers  across  the  door  opening  into  the 
salon.  She  made  a  great  noise,  and  once  when  she 
stopped  she  heard  a  step  on  the  other  side,  so  she 
knew  that  Mme.  Varasdin  was  listening.  When  she 
had  barricaded  herself,  she  got  into  bed  again,  but 
found  she  could  not  sleep.  At  every  creak  she  started, 
and  the  silence  of  the  streets  increased  her  sense  of 
loneliness  and  her  fear.  She  feared  the  return  of 
Mme.  Varasdin;  she  feared  husband  and  wife  to- 
gether. Suppose  they  made  their  way  in  and  were 
determined  to  do  her  some  horrid  harm.  Now  that  the 
strain  was  over,  her  courage  ebbed  away  and  she  lay 
with  wide  open  eyes,  expectant  and  terrified.  What 
had  happened  seemed  worse  in  retrospect  than  it  had 
been  in  experience,  just  as  a  narrow  escape  from  violent 
death  turns  one  sick  when  all  danger  is  gone  by.  She 
vowed  she  would  not  sleep  under  that  roof  another 
night,  or,  if  she  could  help  it,  confront  either  of  the 
Varasdins  again;  and  amidst  the  distress  and  turmoil 
in  her  mind  there  arose  the  consoling  thought  of  her 
friend.  He  would  meet  her,  she  would  tell  him  she 
must  get  away,  and  he  would  help  her.  Instead  of 
being  afraid  of  the  Varasdins  as  she  was,  he  would 
assuredly  make  them  afraid  of  him.  "  And  that  is 
the  difference  between  a  man  and  a  woman,"  thought 
Amabel  with  the  usual  injustice  of  a  woman  when  she 
is  comparing  her  love  with  her  sex.  Directly  it  was 


102          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

light  she  got  up  and  dressed  and  opened  her  window. 
The  fresh  air  was  restoring,  and  so  was  the  return 
of  life  in  the  street.  The  first  tramcar  seemed  to  bring 
back  the  midday  world  that  has  no  traffic  with  night- 
mares; and  the  people  who  soon  appeared  —  artisans 
on  their  way  to  work,  milkmen,  servants,  shopkeepers 
—  were  all  decent  folk,  who  come  with  dawn  and  leave 
night  and  its  deeds  behind  them.  When  Amabel  saw 
that  the  street  was  really  astir  again,  she  began  to 
pack  her  trunks,  as  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  would  not  come  back  to  the  house  if  she  could 
help  it.  By  the  time  she  had  finished,  the  maid  brought 
her  a  tray  with  coffee  and  bread  and  butter ;  and  when 
Amabel  gave  her  a  present  of  money  the  girl  looked 
round  with  surprise  at  the  dismantled  room  and  tried 
to  find  out  what  the  young  lady's  plans  were.  But 
the  young  lady  was  not  in  a  communicative  mood, 
said  she  was  going  out  for  the  day,  and  left  a  message 
for  madame  that  she  would  not  return  till  late  in  the 
afternoon.  She  said  nothing  about  her  trunks  being 
packed  ready  for  a  journey,  and  when  she  had  drunk 
her  coffee  she  slipped  out  of  the  front  door  quietly 
and  quickly,  just  as  if  she  did  not  wish  to  be  seen. 

Amabel  had  a  good  many  hours  to  get  through 
before  she  could  go  to  the  Avenue  des  Acacias,  but  she 
had  mapped  out  the  time  for  herself  as  well  as  she 
could.  She  went  straight  to  the  galleries  of  the 
Louvre  and  spent  two  hours  there,  her  thoughts  per- 
haps fixed  with  greater  persistence  on  the  events  of 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          103 

the  night  and  the  promise  of  the  afternoon  than  on 
the  masterpieces  before  her  eyes.  At  one  o'clock  she 
went  for  lunch  to  a  place  where  the  British  foregather, 
and  find  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris  that  respectable 
and  gloomy  environment  that  reminds  them  of  home. 
She  sat  next  to  a  chubby  curate  and  opposite  a  thin 
grey  spinster  dressed  in  shrunken  tweeds,  a  sailor  hat, 
and  spectacles.  She  eat  ham  and  eggs,  drank  Mugby 
Junction  coffee,  and  read  the  Births,  Deaths,  and  Mar- 
riages in  an  old  number  of  the  Times.  When  she 
had  been  there  half-an-hour  she  felt  quite  home-sick, 
and  determined  to  live  amongst  her  countryfolk 
again. 

But  though  she  made  the  ham  and  eggs  last  as  long 
as  she  could,  she  had  more  than  two  hours  to  get 
through  before  she  could  take  the  second  step  towards 
her  return  journey.  She  had  taken  a  big  one  when 
she  packed  her  trunks,  and  the  moment  she  saw  Mr. 
Sheringham  she  meant  to  ask  his  advice  as  to  the  rest. 
Meanwhile  she  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  do 
than  to  drive  to  the  Salon.  There  is  protection  in  a 
crowd,  and  Amabel  got  so  much  stared  at  that  she 
did  not  enjoy  walking  about  the  streets  of  Paris  alone. 
She  had  been  to  the  Salon  several  times  already  and 
knew  where  to  find  her  favourite  pictures;  and  she 
had  sat  down  in  front  of  one  and  was  staring  at  it 
rather  sleepily  when,  to  her  surprise,  Mr.  Newby  came 
up  to  her.  He  carried  a  catalogue  in  his  hand  and 
looked  delighted  to  find  a  companion. 


104          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I've  had  enough  for  to-day,"  he  said.  "  It's  a 
beastly  grind.  Let's  come  into  one  of  those  little  side- 
galleries  and  talk.  Wonder  who  buys  these  pictures. 
I  wouldn't.  Wonder  how  the  fellows  who  paint  them 
make  a  living.  Just  look  at  that  heap  of  decaying  cab- 
bages with  a  Cupid  sitting  on  top.  What's  it  mean? 
Who  wants  to  see  a  Cupid  sitting  on  cabbages  every 
day  of  his  life?  And  look  at  those  demons  writhing 
in  hell." 

"  They  are  not  demons,"  said  Amabel,  who  had  got 
up  and  was  looking  patiently  at  the  picture ;  "  they  are 
musicians  in  an  orchestra.  Their  faces  are  blurred. 
Perhaps  if  we  were  not  so  ignorant  we  should  think 
it  very  clever.  Don't  you  know  that  the  French  are 
much  better  at  painting  and  acting  than  we  are  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  daresay,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  and  the  admis- 
sion did  not  seem  to  trouble  him.  He  found  a  com- 
fortable seat,  and  began  to  look  at  the  passers-by 
through  his  single  eyeglass. 

"  How  the  beggars  stare,"  he  went  on.  "  If  you 
were  my  sister,  I  wouldn't  let  you  knock  about  Paris 
by  yourself  in  this  way.  It's  not  right." 

"  But  I'm  with  you  now,"  said  Amabel,  laughing 
at  the  boy's  tone,  and  secretly  rather  glad  he  was  there. 
The  rooms  were  full  of  people  of  various  kinds,  and 
some  of  the  wrong  kind  stared  at  the  beautiful  Eng- 
lish girl  more  than  was  civil  or  agreeable. 

Mr.  Newby  drew  himself  up  and,  with  a  further 
assumption  of  manliness,  said  — 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          105 

"  When  you've  had  enough  of  the  pictures  I'll  take 
you  back  to  the  Avenue  Ernani." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Amabel ;  "  I'm  not  going 
back  there  yet." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  meet  a  friend  in  the  Bois." 

Mr.  Newby's  silence  expressed  dissatisfaction.  He 
did  not  maintain  it  long. 

"  Is  the  friend  French  or  English  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

"  It  makes  all  the  difference,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  was  told  not  to  ask 
questions." 

"  I  was  told  not  to  let  my  small  sisters  get  into 
mischief." 

Amabel's  eyes  twinkled  in  a  friendly  way  as  she 
glanced  at  the  young  man. 

"  I'm  going  to  meet  Mr.  Sheringham,"  she  said. 

"  Sheringham  is  an  awfully  decent  sort,"  said  Mr. 
Newby. 

"If  he  can  help  me  arrange  it,  I  shall  return  to 
England  to-night." 

"  Bless  me !  What  has  happened  ?  Have  you  had 
a  row  with  the  Varasdins  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  Madame  Varasdin,"  said  Amabel. 

She  was  not  unwilling  to  let  Mr.  Newby  know  that 
there  could  be  divergent  opinions  about  the  bewitching 
Anastasie,  and  it  surprised  her  a  good  deal  to  find 
that  he  seemed  to  understand  her  point  of  view. 


106         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I  like  her  very  much  myself,"  he  said ;  "  but  I 
like  cognac,  and  tobacco,  and  baccarat,  and  other  things 
I  should  not  consider  wholesome  for  my  little  sisters. 
A  young  gander  can  digest  a  great  deal  that  would 
injure  a  young  goose." 

"  I  daresay  he  thinks  so,"  said  Amabel.  "  Is  Ma- 
dame Varasdin  like  cognac  and  baccarat  ?  " 

"  She  is  agreeable  and  stimulating,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  I  should  think  she  is  expensive,"  said  Amabel,  and 
then  she  blushed  uncomfortably  at  her  own  indiscre- 
tion. But  it  had  occurred  to  her  that  the  gander's  pearl 
necklace  must  have  cost  a  great  deal  more  than  any 
offerings  made  by  the  goose. 

"  I  know  I  look  like  an  ass,"  said  Mr.  Newby ;  "  but 
I  assure  you  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  Don't  you 
worry  about  me." 

"  It  isn't  my  business  to  worry  about  you." 

"  I  hope  that  isn't  a  hint,  because  I  was  just  going 
to  give  you  some  excellent  advice.  You  go  back  to 
England  as  quick  as  you  can,  and  let  Sheringham  sell 
your  Eugenias  at  a  top-price,  and  live  good  and  quiet 
in  one  of  those  Christian  families  till  you  have  an 
uncle  or  husband  to  look  after  you.  What  you're 
doing  here  in  Paris  with  delightful  but  peculiar  people 
like  the  Varasdins,  nobody  can  understand." 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  too,"  said  Amabel.  "  If 
you  were  my  little  brother,  I  should  refuse  to  leave 
you  behind." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          107 


XII 


"  I  WISH  you'd  let  me  take  you  as  far  as  the  Bois," 
said  Mr.  Newby.  "  Suppose  Sheringham  was  detained, 
and  he  easily  might  be,  you'd  find  it  very  unpleasant 
waiting  about  by  yourself." 

Amabel  did  not  think  it  likely  that  Mr.  Sheringham 
would  disappoint  her,  but  she  made  no  further  objec- 
tion to  Mr.  Newby's  proposal,  and  they  drove  to  the 
Bois  together  and  were  put  down  at  the  Avenue  des 
Acacias. 

"  I  don't  see  him  yet,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  Perhaps  we  are  early,"  said  Amabel,  but  she  looked 
at  her  watch  and  found  that  it  was  after  four. 

The  Avenue  was  not  crowded  that  afternoon.  The 
pathway  was  almost  deserted ;  the  benches  were  empty ; 
and  carriages  and  motor  cars  drove  by  in  a  broken  pro- 
cession. There  had  been  a  little  rain  and  the  air  was 
slightly  chilly,  but  the  sun  shone  out  amongst  windy 
clouds  and  dried  the  seats  and  sparkled  on  the  glist- 
ening trees.  Amabel  was  so  tired  that  she  was  glad 
to  sit  down,  and  though  she  told  Mr.  Newby  not  to 
wait,  he  sat  down  with  her. 

"  I'll  wait  till  midnight  if  you  like,"  he  said;  "  I've 
nothing  to  do." 

"  Perhaps  there  is  a  telegram  at  the  Avenue  Ernani." 


io8          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"Very  likely.  It's  the  boom,  you  bet.  A  man  in 
Mexican  Jem's  position  isn't  his  own  master  when 
there's  a  boom  in  his  market.  If  he  was  —  well,  he 
wouldn't  be  Mexican  Jem.  He  may  be  on  his  way 
back  to  London." 

By  this  time  Amabel  began  to  fear  that  Mr.  Shering- 
ham  would  not  come,  and  the  idea  appalled  her.  She 
had  made  no  plans,  she  was  full  of  suspicion,  and  she 
had  counted  on  him  to  help  her.  The  thought  of  him 
had  sustained  her  courage  all  through  the  night  and 
the  lagging  day;  with  a  thrill  in  her  heart  she  had 
come  to  hear  the  end  of  the  story  he  had  half  told; 
she  had  come  for  his  counsel  and  protection,  and  had 
felt  sure  that  he  would  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
give  them.  From  the  moment  she  escaped  from  the 
flat,  she  had  looked  to  him  as  a  defender.  Her  dis- 
appointment was  indistinguishable  from  her  terror, 
and  she  felt  both  anxious  and  forlorn. 

"  Is  there  a  boom  ?  "  she  said  flatly. 

"  There  is  an  almighty  boom,"  chirruped  Mr.  Newby. 
"  Isn't  Hyacinth  Louis  Varasdin  agog  about  it  ?  I 
thought  he  dabbled  in  Mexicans.  Those  Eugenias  of 
yours  now " 

"  Don't  talk  of  Eugenias,"  cried  Amabel.  "  I  wish 
they  had  gone  to  smash  like  an  air  balloon.  They  took 
•Uncle  Michael  away.  They  bring  me  nothing  but 
bad  luck.  I  want  to  be  rid  of  them.  Can't  you  take 
them  and  sell  them  and  give  me  the  money  —  invest 
the  money  for  me,  I  mean  ?  " 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          109 

"  I  suppose  I  could,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  So  could 
Sheringham.  Why  not  talk  to  him  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  meant  to  talk  to  him  about  it,"  said  Amabel, 
with  a  quaver  in  her  voice  that  she  tried  hard  to 
control. 

"  You  can  write  to  him." 

"  I  don't  know  his  address." 

"  You  might  as  well  say  you  don't  know  the  King's 
address.  Stock  Exchange,  London,  of  course." 

"  It  isn't  of  course  at  all.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  your  Stock  Exchange,  and  booms,  and  people. 
What  is  Mr.  Sheringham?  What  is  Monsieur  Varas- 
din?  Why  do  you  shrug  your  shoulders  at  one  and 
go  on  your  knees  to  the  other?  What's  the  difference 
between  them  ?  " 

"  Oh !    Lord ! ! !  "  gasped  Mr.  Newby. 

"  That  doesn't  tell  me." 

"  One  is  a  power  and  known  to  be  awfully  decent, 
as  I  said  a  little  while  ago ;  the  other  —  isn't." 

"  Isn't  awfully  decent  ?  " 

"  Rather  not,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  You  have  to  be 
jolly  well  on  your  guard  with  Hyancinth  Louis,  I  can 
tell  you." 

"  Then  why  do  you  dine  there  so  often  ?  " 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  why  do  you?"  said  Mr. 
Newby,  looking  very  red  and  uncomfortable. 

"  I  pay  Madame  Varasdin  seven  guineas  a  week, 
and,  besides  that,  she  owes  me  a  hundred  pounds," 
said  Amabel. 


no    THE  THOUSAND  EUGENIAS 

Mr.  Newby  could  not  deny  himself  a  slight  whistle. 
It  was  not  very  loud  or  very  long. 

"  She  said  you  had  never  paid  her  a  penny  yet,"  he 
observed.  "  She  said  so  yesterday  as  we  drove  home 
together." 

Amabel  looked  at  him  and  drew  her  own  conclu- 
sions. 

"  If  the  truth  were  known  I  suspect  we  have  both 
paid  for  our  dinners,"  said  she;  and  then  she  sud- 
denly made  up  her  mind  to  tell  him  what  had  happened 
and  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  Last  night  Madame  Varasdin  came  into  my  room 
when  she  thought  I  was  asleep,"  she  began.  "  She 
took  this  purse  from  under  my  pillow " 

Mr.  Newby  left  off  tracing  designs  in  the  damp 
gravel  with  the  point  of  his  stick  and  sat  up  with  a 
jerk,  facing  Amabel.  The  girl  finished  her  story  in 
words  as  dry  as  bones ;  she  told  him  how  she  had  fol- 
lowed Mme.  Varasdin,  found  the  Eugenias  in  her 
hands,  and  got  them  back  again,  and  how  she  had  felt 
less  afraid  at  the  time  than  she  had  done  ever  since. 

"  But  what  did  she  say  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Newby. 

"  She  said  she  was  a  somnambulist,  and  had  been 
walking  in  her  sleep." 

In  spite  of  Amabel's  fatigue  and  disappointment,  she 
could  not  help  laughing  at  Mr.  Newby's  expression. 

"  Oh !  draw  it  mild,"  he  murmured. 

"  It  was  equally  impossible  to  contradict  or  to  be- 
lieve her,"  said  Amabel. 


THE  THOUSAND  EUGENIAS    in 

"  You  must  go  back  to  England,"  said  Mr.  Newby, 
with  decision. 

"  I'm  very  glad  I  met  you,"  said  Amabel.  "  If  I 
had  come  here  quite  alone  and  Mr.  Sheringham  had 
failed  me,  I  should  have  been  at  my  wits'  end.  I  can't 
go  to  England  without  my  trunks,  and  I  should  have 
been  afraid  to  go  back  to  the  flat  by  myself.  I  am  sure 
Madame  Varasdin  will  be  furious  when  she  finds  I 
will  not  stay  there  any  longer.  I  suppose  I  must  stay 
one  more  night." 

"  Must  you?  "  said  Mr.  Newby  doubtfully. 

"  I  would  rather  travel  by  day ;  and  I  am  not  afraid, 
because  I  shall  get  Adele,  the  femme-de-chambre,  to 
sleep  in  the  room,  and  I  shall  barricade  that  door  again. 
I  feel  sure  that  she  will  not  make  the  attempt  a  second 
time.  She  must  recognise  that  she  has  failed." 

"I  suppose  it  is  not  you  who  were  dreaming?" 
said  Mr.  Newby.  "You  are  quite  certain  about  it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Amabel ;  and  her  tone  carried  convic- 
tion. 

"  I'm  expecting  you  all  to  dine  with  me  to-night," 
said  Mr.  Newby.  "  I  arranged  it  with  Madame  Va- 
rasdin yesterday.  I've  found  a  new  restaurant  some- 
where towards  Montmartre  that  isn't  half  bad.  I  sup- 
pose, as  it  is  arranged,  it  must  stand,  and  perhaps  it 
will  be  pleasanter  for  you.  Otherwise " 

Amabel  perceived  that  the  young  man  believed  her, 
and  that  he  was  both  shocked  and  angry.  She  fore- 
saw that  Mme.  Varasdin's  hold  on  him  would  not  be 


H2    THE  THOUSAND  EUGENIAS 

as  tight  as  it  had  been,  and  that,  to  this  extent  at  any 
rate,  good  was  growing  out  of  evil. 

"  It  is  past  five  already,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  will 
go  back  now  and  see  if  there  is  a  telegram." 

"  I  will  come  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  Madame  Varasdin  at  once,  while 
you  are  there,  that  I  am  going  to  England  to-morrow. 
When  I  have  done  that  the  worst  will  be  over.  I  need 
hardly  see  her  or  speak  to  her  again  except  at  dinner, 
when  you  will  be  there  too." 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  The  programme  was 
an  uncomfortable  one,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to 
amend  it.  Of  course,  he  must  see  Amabel  through  as 
well  as  he  could,  because  she  was  his  countrywoman 
and,  for  the  moment,  friendless.  It  was  most  unlucky 
that  Sheringham  had  not  turned  up.  Sheringham  had 
never  paid  for  the  Varasdin  dinners  or  presented  Mme. 
Varasdin  with  pearls,  and  his  companionship  of  Ama- 
bel could  not  have  been  regarded  by  his  hostess  as 
a  slur  on  herself.  Mr.  Newby  was  not  unwilling  to 
wind  up  his  affairs  with  the  lady;  her  demands  had 
been  excessive  lately,  and  her  recent  exploit  put  her 
beyond  the  pale  of  his  large  tolerance;  but  he  would 
rather  have  retired  quietly  and  gradually  from  the  little 
band  of  her  admirers.  As  things  were,  he  expected 
an  explosion. 

She  surprised  them  both  by  opening  the  door  of  the 
flat  herself,  but  she  gave  no  reason  for  doing  so,  and 
they  followed  her  into  the  salon.  Amabel  felt  shy  of 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          113 

looking  her  in  the  face  at  first,  but  she  soon  found 
that  her  embarrassment  was  not  shared  by  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin. 

"  You  have  missed  Mr.  Sheringham,"  she  said  to  the 
girl,  and  there  was  a  note  of  malicious  satisfaction  in 
her  voice.  "  He  came  quite  early  this  morning,  and 
seemed  surprised  not  to  find  you  here." 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Amabel,  and  in  her  voice  there  was 
bitter  disappointment. 

"  He  waited  some  time,  as  I  said  I  did  not  know 
where  you  had  gone  or  when  you  would  be  back.  Per- 
haps it  struck  him,  mademoiselle,  that  you  do  not  treat 
your  hostess  very  civilly." 

"  I  sent  you  a  message  by  Adele,"  said  Amabel. 

"  I  did  not  receive  it." 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Sheringham  left  some  message  ?  " 

"  Oh !  the  usual  thing ;  his  kind  regards.  He  was  off 
to  London  by  the  11.50  train." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  had  happened  to  call  him  back 
so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  He  talked  of  business  matters  to  Monsieur  Varas- 
din.  I  paid  no  attention." 

Amabel  saw  that  Mme.  Varasdin  did  not  mean  to  tell 
her  more  than  she  could  help  about  Mr.  Sheringham's 
visit,  and  that  it  was  waste  of  time  to  ply  her  with 
questions.  She  felt  sick  with  vexation  and  disappoint- 
ment, and  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  anything  pleasant 
waited  beyond  the  immediate  miserable  hour.  Mr. 
Newby  stood  awkwardly  beside  a  group  of  palms  and 


H4    THE  THOUSAND  EUGENIAS 

fiddled  with  their  leaves.  For  a  little  while  none  of 
the  three  people  spoke. 

"  He  will  be  over  here  again  in  about  a  fortnight," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin,  after  some  reflection. 

Amabel  saw  her  opening. 

"  I  shall  not  be  here  then,"  she  said  firmly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

Mr.  Newby  took  a  step  away  from  the  palms,  a  step 
towards  Amabel.  Its  significance  was  not  lost  on 
Anastasie,  and  she  included  him  in  her  glance  of  anger 
and  dislike. 

"  I  have  decided  to  go  back  to  London,"  said  Amabel. 

"  But  your  uncle  expects  to  find  you  here." 

"  I  shall  communicate  with  him." 

"  That  will  take  time." 

"  No,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  shall  telegraph  to  him  from 
London  to-morrow.  He  left  me  quite  free." 

"  To-morrow !  "  exclaimed  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  You 
have  been  under  my  care  six  weeks  —  when  I  took  you 
into  my  house,  you  were  somewhat  puzzled  and  friend- 
less, I  think  —  out  of  my  compassion  I  threw  open  my 
doors  to  you.  My  husband  and  I  have  treated  you  as 
an  honoured  guest,  and  without  rhyme  or  reason  you 
want  to  leave  us  at  a  day's  notice  as  you  leave  an  inn. 
Allow  me  to  inform  you,  Mademoiselle,  that  your  be- 
haviour is  not  becoming,  it  is  not  even  honest.  I  have 
been  put  to  considerable  expense  on  your  account. 
How  do  you  propose  to  compensate  me  ?  " 

"  You  owe  me  a  hundred  pounds,"  began  Amabel, 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          115 

in  so  low  a  voice  that  it  hardly  reached  Mr.  Newby's 
ears;  but  Mme.  Varasdin  turned  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  assuredly  a  dreamer  of  dreams," 
she  said,  and  her  hand  went  to  her  head  for  an  instant 
as  if  to  intimate  that  there  was  something  a  little  wrong 
with  the  girl's  mental  faculties.  "  I  do  not  owe  her  a 
penny." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Newby  hesitated ;  but  one  glance 
at  Amabel's  sane,  indignant,  and  contemptuous  face 
convinced  him. 

"  Miss  Ferrers  is  free  to  go  to-morrow  if  she  chooses, 
you  know,"  he  said.  "  What's  the  good  of  making  a 
bother  about  it?  She's  homesick,  and  you  can't  keep 
her  here  by  force.  As  for  the  money  transactions  that 
have  taken  place  between  you " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  discuss  them  with  you,"  said 
Mme.  Varasdin  resolutely. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  discuss,"  said  Amabel,  getting 
up.  "  I  shall  go  to  London  to-morrow,  and  I  make 
you  a  present  of  a  hundred  pounds." 

She  went  straight  to  her  own  room  and  rang  for 
Adele,  but  no  one  answered.  When  she  had  rung 
twice  she  went  to  the  kitchen  and  then  into  every  room 
on  the  flat  except  the  salon.  But  Adele  was  nowhere 
to  be  found.  As  she  stood  indecisively  in  the  hall, 
wondering  if  the  girl  had  been  sent  out  and  would  soon 
return,  the  front  door  bell  rang.  She  opened  the  door 
herself,  saw  the  concierge  with  a  letter  in  his  hand, 
and  observed  that  Adele  was  not  at  home. 


ii6         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Does  Mademoiselle  not  know  ? "  said  the  man. 
"  Adele  was  dismissed  this  morning  —  paid  her  wages 
and  dismissed.  She  was  so  surprised,  she  hardly  knew 
whether  to  laugh  or  cry." 

"  But  why  was  she  dismissed  ?  "  said  Amabel,  and 
the  man  was  astonished  to  see  her  turn  quite  pale  and 
weak.  She  clung  to  the  door  and  her  voice  shook  when 
she  spoke.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  her  ques- 
tion and  pointed  inside  the  flat. 

"  Ladies  like  madame  are  violent  and  capricious," 
said  he.  "  I  believe  the  poor  girl  broke  a  vase.  What 
surprised  her  was  to  get  paid.  She  thought  she  would 
have  to  go  to  the  police  for  her  money." 

Mr.  Newby  had  just  got  up  to  go  when  Amabel 
entered  the  room  again,  looking  so  white  and  scared 
that  he  took  alarm. 

"What  is  it?  "he  said. 

"  I'll  go  to-night,"  she  whispered.  "  Adele  has  been 
sent  away.  I'm  afraid  to  sleep  here  again.  I'll  go 
to-night." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          117 


XIII 

MR.  NEWBY  looked  uncomfortably  at  Mme.  Varasdin. 
She  had  come  up  to  them  and  must  have  heard  what 
Amabel  said. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?  "  she  inquired. 

But  that  was  more  than  Amabel  had  courage  to  tell 
her  just  then.  She  stood  in  the  doorway,  the  picture 
of  agitation  and  alarm,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  to  Mr. 
Newby  with  an  appeal  in  them  that  the  young  man 
would  have  responded  to  at  any  cost  to  himself. 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  he  said  obscurely.  "  I'll  fix 
things  and  let  you  know  at  dinner.  I'm  off  now.  See 
you  again  at  seven  sharp." 

"Where?"  asked  Amabel,  who  had  never  before 
troubled  about  the  name  or  address  of  a  restaurant  at 
which  she  was  to  dine  with  the  Varasdins.  He  told 
her  and  she  listened  carefully,  and  then  before  he  had 
time  to  make  a  move,  she  ran  into  her  own  room.  They 
heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  frightened  the  poor  girl  last  night," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin,  narrowly  watching  the  young 
Englishman's  face.  "  She  seems  quite  nervous  and  up- 
set. Instead  of  going  out  to  dinner,  she  ought  to  see 
a  doctor  and  take  a  soothing  draught.  Can't  you  per- 
suade her  to?  " 


ii8          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  She  does  seem 
a  bit  upset.  You  see  she  has  got  it  into  her  head  that 
it  might  happen  again." 

"  She  did  tell  you  about  it,  then !  How  unnecessary 
and  disloyal  to  gossip  with  a  stranger  about  the  infirm- 
ity of  a  friend.  I  am  disappointed  in  Miss  Ferrers." 

"  Well !  you've  almost  seen  the  last  of  her." 

"  I  suppose  she  means  to  return  here  to-night  ?  " 

"  Oh !  didn't  you  hear  what  she  said  to  me  ?  She 
prefers  to  sleep  in  Paris  to-night,  so  as  to  be  nearer  the 
Nord  for  her  start,  I  suppose.  It  is  quite  a  good  idea." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you.  This  young  lady  is  staying 
in  my  house.  Her  uncle  put  her  in  my  care.  At  a 
moment's  notice,  without  apology  or  explanation,  she 
decamps,  abetted  by  you.  What  do  you  suppose  her 
uncle  will  say  and  her  English  friends?  What  are 
your  intentions  with  regard  to  her  ?  " 

"  My  intention  is  to  have  dinner  with  you  and  your 
husband  and  Miss  Ferrers,  and  then  to  take  you  to 
some  of  those  Montmartre  theatres,  as  we  arranged 
last  night.  That's  all  at  present,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  and 
he  walked  away.  The  lady  made  no  effort  to  detain 
him.  She  waited  until  she  heard  her  husband's  step 
in  the  corridor,  and  then  she  went  out  to  meet  him. 
He  took  a  long  time  to  hang  up  his  hat  and  coat,  and 
then  he  strolled  towards  her  as  if  there  was  no  hurry. 
He  did  not  observe  that  her  face  was  livid  with  anger 
and  impatience. 

"  Come  into  my  room,"  she  said. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          119 

Her  room  was  at  the  further  end  of  the  flat,  and  the 
only  available  door  faced  the  long,  narrow  passage. 
As  M.  Varasdin  was  about  to  shut  it,  his  wife  pulled  it 
roughly  from  him  and  set  it  wide  ajar. 

"  I  want  no  listeners,"  said  she. 

"  Are  the  servants  about  ?    I  don't  hear  them." 

"  I  want  no  servants,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  The 
cook  went  yesterday,  I  sent  off  Adele  to-day." 

"What  for?" 

"  So  that  we  should  be  by  ourselves  —  with  Miss 
Ferrers.  Is  that  plain  enough,  fool  ?  " 

The  man  shuffled  uncomfortably  in  his  chair.  He 
had  sat  down  in  the  easiest  at  once  and  had  yawned 
and  stretched  his  legs,  but  now  he  looked  up  at  his 
wife  who  seemed  suddenly  to  be  standing  over  him, 
her  face  and  her  whole  body  tense  with  anger. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  yawn  and  stretch  your  legs," 
she  said ;  "  I  suppose  you  think  there  is  nothing  else 
for  you  to  do  to-night." 

"  I  hope  there  is  dinner,"  he  said,  with  artificial 
gaiety. 

"  It  is  your  one  thought.  And  pray  what  have  you 
brought  me  of  late  to  buy  dinner  with  ?  " 

"  I  can't  bring  you  what  I  haven't  got,"  said  the  man, 
his  flaccid  face  overcast  and  scowling.  "  I'm  cleared 
out.  I  had  to  borrow  a  few  francs  from  Gregorio  to- 
day to  pay  my  dejeuner  and  my  tram  fares.  You'll 
have  to  give  me  something  for  to-morrow." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  give.    I  am  not  going  to  sell  my 


120          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

jewels  to  support  a  scamp  like  you.  I  owe  Miss  Fer- 
rers a  hundred  pounds." 

"  Those  Eugenias  would  set  us  right.  They  are  at 
four  to-day  and  will  go  much  higher  when  confirma- 
tion of  the  strike  comes.  We  could  buy  a  little  villa 
somewhere  on  the  Riviera  and  there  would  be  an  end 
to  this  dog's  life " 

"  Some  dogs  earn  a  living,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 
"  They  are  harnessed  in  carts  and  work  hard.  Some 
lie  on  cushions  and  eat  and  sleep  and  grow  fat.  Which 
kind  of  dog  are  you,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Oh !  your  tongue !  "  said  the  man.  "  Get  the  Eu- 
genias, and  then  talk  if  you  please." 

"  It  isn't  so  easy.  I've  tried  twice  and  failed.  Your 
turn  comes  now.  You  have  the  evening  before  you." 

"  The  evening !  " 

"  Mademoiselle  has  taken  fright.  She  does  not  like 
a  somnambulist.  She  sleeps  at  a  hotel  to-night.  To- 
morrow she  goes  to  England." 

" Diable!"  said  M.  Varasdin.  "And  you  call  your- 
self clever !  " 

"  You  must  remember  that  in  the  matter  of  criminal 
offences  it  is  I  who  am  the  amateur,"  said  his  wife. 

"  You  are  the  kind  of  woman  one  strangles  in  the 
end,"  said  he. 

"  You  perceive  how  we  stand,  I  hope,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  We  have  nothing  but  debts,  and  I  should 
like  to  know  in  which  capital  of  Europe  you  have  the 
shreds  of  a  reputation.  Paris  was  our  last  chance,  and 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          121 

here  too  you  have  burnt  your  fingers.  You  are  not 
the  man  to  prosper  in  a  new  country.  What  lies 
before  you  unless  you  get  hold  of  these  Eugenias?  If 
you  come  back  to-night  without  them  you  have  seen 
the  last  of  me.  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  patience.  Your 
rascalities  land  you  in  prison  instead  of  at  the  top  of 
the  tree,  and  I  have  told  you  before  that  poverty  is 
not  to  my  taste.  I  was  not  made  for  it." 

The  man  cowered  as  he  listened  to  his  wife's  tirade, 
and  he  muttered  again  that  he  had  been  unlucky  and 
that  he  couldn't  pick  up  money  in  the  streets,  and  that 
their  separation  would  not  do  either  of  them  any  good. 

"  I'm  tired  of  supporting  you,"  she  said ;  "  that's  the 
long  and  short  of  it.  You  haven't  earned  a  sixpence 
this  year." 

"  You  scold  and  you  scold,  but  you  don't  tell  me 
what  I'm  to  do,"  complained  M.  Varasdin. 

"  We  are  dining  with  Newby  to-night.  After  dinner 
I  am  going  out  with  him.  You  will  naturally  conduct 
Miss  Ferrers  to  her  hotel.  You  are  not  a  somnam- 
bulist. You  have  escorted  her  here  and  there  these  six 
weeks.  She  can  find  no  reason  to  refuse." 

"  She  can  insist  on  a  cab.  It  will  be  a  ten  minutes' 
drive." 

"  Persuade  her  to  walk,  then.  But  I  leave  the  details 
to  you.  I  admit  that  the  matter  has  elements  of  diffi- 
culty. At  the  same  time  I  must  remind  you  of  the 
desperate  condition  of  our  own  affairs.  After  all,  you 
are  a  man.  The  meanest  hound  amongst  you  has  the 


122          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

pull  when  it  comes  to  muscle.  The  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world,  the  cleverest  woman  in  the  world 
walks  through  life  knowing  that  any  blackguard  can 
knock  her  down.  It  doesn't  happen,  you  say?  Look 
through  that  pile  of  old  newspapers.  If  you  can  find 
one  without  a  case  of  it  I'll  give  you  twenty  francs 
for  your  dejeuner  to-morrow." 

M.  Varasdin  did  not  search  through  the  papers  to 
which  his  wife  pointed.  He  was  thinking  hard. 

"  Where  are  we  dining,  do  you  say  ?  " 

"At  that  restaurant  Newby  has  just  discovered, 
right  away  towards  Montmartre." 

"  She  knows  her  way  about  Paris  ?  " 

"  She  knows  how  to  get  from  here  to  the  Louvre  in 
a  cab  or  a  tram.  She  knows  the  Madelaine  and  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  She  has  stared  at  Notre-Dame. 
She  has  never  been  near  all  those  quiet  old  streets  you 
will  be  near  to-night." 

"  It  is  impossible.  I  should  be  suspected.  The  police 
would  be  on  us  in  a  few  hours." 

"  If  you  bungle.  What  does  suspicion  matter  so  long 
as  proof  is  impossible?  Of  course,  you  must  come 
straight  back  here,  and,  according  to  what  has  hap- 
pened, we  shall  act.  Don't  run  away  in  a  panic  and 
have  a  hue-and-cry  after  you  before  morning.  Prob- 
ably we  shall  sit  still,  answer  all  questions,  and  snap 
our  fingers  in  the  end.  It  is  either  that  or  the  gutter 
for  both  of  us." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that? " 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          123 

Mme.  Varasdin  shrugged  her  shoulders.  A  clock  in 
the  room  struck  six.  It  was  time  for  her  to  dress,  and 
she  took  from  the  wardrobe  the  quiet,  close-fitting 
gown  she  considered  suitable  that  night.  The  man 
sat  staring  at  the  floor,  and  biting  his  lips,  and 
sighing  hard  sometimes.  He  looked  like  a  stupid,  evil 
beast  caught  in  a  trap,  and  he  could  see  no  way  out 
except  the  one  he  feared  to  try.  He  had  led  a  life  of 
mean  shifts;  had  sat  in  an  Austrian  prison  as  a  swin- 
dler; and  had  left  an  equivocal  name  in  many  cities. 
At  the  beginning  of  his  career  he  had  shown  some  skill 
in  playing  the  devil's  game  with  money;  had  floated 
wild-cat  companies,  and  had  been  known  to  fools,  first 
as  a  financier  and  then  as  a  knave.  He  had  feasted 
and  roystered,  and  starved  and  despaired.  Over  and 
over  again  his  wife  had  lifted  him  out  of  the  mire  with 
money  got  he  asked  not  how.  She  was  so  clever  and 
so  prudent  that,  of  late,  they  had  even  gained  a  footing 
in  the  semi-respectable  society  formed  by  the  success- 
ful of  his  kind  in  Paris,  and  had  led  an  agreeable  life 
there.  He  was  no  worse,  he  told  himself,  than  other 
men ;  no  worse  than  that  arch-swindler,  Jacob  Wolfen- 
stein ;  not  much  worse  than  old  Gregorio ;  a  little  better, 
perhaps,  than  the  notorious  Whitley  Brown,  who  still 
sat  at  good  men's  tables,  whose  wife  had  curtseyed  to 
kings.  It  was  his  dire  misfortune  that  ruin  had  him 
by  the  throat  unless  he  committed  a  theft  for  which 
want  of  scruple  was  not  sufficient  without  pluck  and 
sleight  of  hand. 


124         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

Meanwhile,  Amabel  got  ready  for  dinner  and  packed 
what  she  needed  for  the  night  in  a  small  handbag  she 
could,  at  a  pinch,  carry.  The  Eugenias  she  put  into  a 
chatelaine  bag  that  fastened  into  her  waistband  by  a 
long,  broad  hook.  She  thought  they  were  safer  on  her 
body  than  in  either  of  her  trunks.  Besides,  in  half- 
an-hour  she  would  be  done  with  this  household,  where 
sinister  deeds  seemed  real,  and  not,  as  they  seem  to 
most  of  us,  half  fabulous.  When  she  thought  of  the 
Varasdins  now  she  thought  of  events,  and  words,  and 
glances  that  all  helped,  like  lights  turned  up  of  a  sud- 
den, to  show  their  true  colours.  She  remembered  their 
straits  for  money,  their  cat-and-dog  life,  the  extrav- 
agance of  the  woman,  the  idle  complaisance  of  the  man. 
The  thought  of  another  night  on  the  flat  had  become 
unbearable.  With  Adele  to  keep  her  company,  she 
might  have  endured  it;  by  herself  she  knew  she  could 
not.  She  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  Mme.  Varas- 
din's  hands  near  her  throat  again.  What  she  feared 
the  girl  could  hardly  have  told  you,  but  sheer  physical 
terror  unnerved  her,  and  her  one  desire  was  to  get 
away  —  away  from  this  woman  and  back  to  the  com- 
pany of  honest  men. 

When  she  was  ready  she  listened  anxiously  at  her 
door  and  heard  no  movement  anywhere  on  the  flat. 
She  took  a  sudden  resolve,  crept  softly  to  the  front 
door,  which  was  near  her  own,  opened  it  without  noise 
and  let  herself  down  in  the  lift.  As  she  descended 
she  trembled  lest  she  should  still  by  some  miracle  be 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          125 

overtaken,  yet  she  stopped  for  a  moment  to  speak  to 
the  concierge,  to  give  him  a  present  of  money,  and 
to  leave  an  address  for  letters.  Then  she  went  out 
into  the  street,  hailed  an  open  cab,  and  drove  to  the 
address  Mr.  Newby  had  given  her.  He  was  waiting 
near  the  door,  and  he  looked  surprised  to  see  her  arrive 
alone. 

"Aren't  the  Varasdins  coming?"  said  he. 

"Oh  yes!"  said  Amabel.  "But  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  wait  for  them.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about 
a  hotel." 

"  I've  taken  a  room  for  you  at  the  Ritz,"  said  Mr. 
Newby.  "  You  see  they  know  your  uncle  there.  You'll 
be  all  right.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  see  you  off  to-morrow, 
but  I've  promised  to  show  some  people  round  Ver- 
sailles, and  we  have  to  make  an  early  start." 

Amabel  thanked  him,  and  they  went  inside  the 
restaurant,  sat  down  at  the  table  he  had  chosen,  and 
began  to  talk  of  indifferent  things.  She  felt  relieved 
and  happy  and  a  little  excited,  as  men  do  when  they 
have  faced  danger  and  passed  safely  by.  Her  thoughts 
turned  to  England  and  to  the  circumstances  of  her 
new  life  there,  and  she  told  Mr.  Newby  how  few 
friends  she  had  and  how  she  would  not  know  where 
to  lay  her  head  until  she  had  consulted  with  Mrs. 
Pu-gsley. 

"  That  state  of  things  won't  last  long,"  said  Mr. 
Newby  sagely.  "  Money  makes  friends." 

"  It  makes  enemies  too,"  said  Amabel  rather  rue- 


126          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

fully.  "  The  moment  I  get  to  London  I  shall  send 
these  hateful  Eugenias  to  Mr.  Sheringham  and  ask 
him  to  get  rid  of  them  for  me.  Uncle  Michael  told 
me  to  wait,  but  I  don't  think  he'll  mind  when  he  hears 
what  a  worry  they've  been,  and  Mr.  Sheringham  will 
know  when  they  ought  to  be  sold,  I  suppose.  Isn't  it 
odd  that  a  musty  old  bit  of  paper  like  this  should  be 
worth  so  much  money,  that  people  should  covet  it, 
that  I  should  have  to  guard  it  as  if  it  was  a  jewel, 
and  that  I  can  sell  it  and  get  real  treasures  with  it  — 
clothes,  and  books,  and  music,  and  journeys,  if  I 
choose,  to  Ultima  Thule." 

She  had  taken  the  certificate  out  of  her  bag  and 
unfolded  it  for  Mr.  Newby  to  see,  and  their  heads 
were  bent  over  it  when  the  swish  of  a  silk  gown  close 
by  arrested  Mr.  Newby's  attention. 

"  Put  it  away,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  and  got 
up  to  receive  Monsieur  and  Madame  Varasdin.  Ama- 
bel hurriedly  thrust  the  paper  into  the  bag  at  her 
side  and  looked  up  to  see  whether  the  husband  and 
wife  had  observed  her.  Apparently  they  were  both 
engrossed  in  apologising  to  Mr.  Newby  for  being  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  late. 

"  We  waited  for  mademoiselle,"  they  said,  but  their 
manner  conveyed  no  reproach.  Indeed,  their  bland 
civility  almost  persuaded  Amabel  that  her  own  be- 
haviour had  been  panic-stricken  and  rude.  Neverthe- 
less the  thought  of  sleeping  at  the  Ritz  was  com- 
fortable. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          127 


XIV 

THE  paraphernalia  of  common  life,  the  habits  of  the 
body,  and  the  company  of  ordinary  men,  all  combine 
to  give  tragedy  a  distant  and  improbable  air.  Yet  it 
takes  little  faith  and  less  reflection  to  show  that  in 
every  tragedy,  whether  of  crime  or  fate  or  passion, 
all  parts  are  played  by  men  whose  needs  and  occupa- 
tions are  as  everyday  as  our  own.  In  real  life  the 
most  awful  events  are  not  detached  from  the  trivial 
as  they  are  in  poetry;  our  spirits  agonise  in  human 
bodies  with  human  needs,  and  the  sun  shines  on  sor- 
row as  often  as  on  joy.  Nevertheless,  so  narrow  is 
our  vision,  so  hidebound  our  intelligence,  we  find  it 
difficult  to  see  in  the  mingled  yarn  the  thread  of 
grief  or  danger  that  will  soon  be  inextricably  woven. 
Amabel  sat  at  table  in  a  well-lighted,  well-appointed 
Parisian  restaurant.  The  silver  and  glass  were  shin- 
ing, the  dishes  were  dainty,  the  guests  who  sat  at  other 
tables  afforded  her  entertainment.  She  drank  cham- 
pagne, and  that  cheerful  wine  restored  her ;  she  heard 
Mme.  Varasdin  and  Mr.  Newby  discuss  the  various 
ways  of  cooking  mutton,  and  that  curiously  encouraged 
her.  She  inhabited  a  safe,  commonplace  corner  of  the 
\vorld,  where  people  were  occupied  with  their  palates 
and  did  not  contemplate  deeds  of  violence.  Her  fears 


128          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

fell  from  her,  she  took  an  interest  in  the  menu, 
and  she  addressed  herself  to  her  dinner  and  to  M. 
Varasdin. 

Amabel  still  thought  him  a  mere  animated  barber's 
block,  and  admired  him  so  little  that  the  very  phrase, 
bel  homme,  the  phrase  his  wife  used  to  describe 
him,  had  been  lowered  in  its  meaning,  and  she  would-' 
not  have  applied  it  except  to  cast  some  slur  of  hollow- 
ness  and  vanity.  This  evening,  he  seemed  to  be  in  a 
silent  mood,  and  he  made  so  little  response  to  Amabel's 
efforts  that  she  guessed  him  to  be  sulky  over  her 
departure,  and  left  him  alone.  Mme.  Varasdin  took 
note  of  this  at  once,  and  drew  the  girl  into  conver- 
sation without  any  sign  of  rancour  or  regret.  Her 
bland  face  showed  no  change,  her  questions  expressed 
her  interest  in  Amabel's  plans,  and  her  manner  sug- 
gested the  tolerance  with  which  a  healthy  person 
condones  the  fancies  of  an  invalid. 

"  Are  you  going  straight  to  your  friends  ? "  she 
asked.  "  Do  they  expect  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  telegraph  to  them  to-morrow,"  said 
Amabel. 

"  But  you  must  give  me  an  address  for  letters," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  I  have  left  one  with  the  concierge,"  said  the 
girl. 

The  lady  then  began  to  talk  about  London.  Unhap- 
pily for  that  city,  she  had  not  enjoyed  a  fortnight  she 
spent  there  some  years  ago.  It  was  impossible,  she 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          129 

said,  to  think  much  of  a  nation  that  eats  parboiled 
cabbage  with  its  dinner  every  day  and  sleeps  on  small 
oblong  pillows.  Amabel  asked  her  about  theatres  and 
picture-galleries,  but  she  said  she  had  not  troubled 
to  visit  either,  as  she  had  always  been  told  that  the 
English  could  not  act  or  paint. 

"  Nor  have  you  any  musicians  or  poets,"  she  added. 
"  It  is  very  strange." 

"  The  wonder  is  that  a  nation  so  compact  of  evil 
and  stupidity  can  exist  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  with 
something  rather  like  a  wink  at  Amabel. 

"  You  are  decaying  fast,"  said  M.  Varasdin  sol- 
emnly. He  was  rather  flushed,  and  had  emptied  his 
glass  oftener  than  usual. 

"  I  have  enjoyed  being  in  Paris,"  said  Amabel ; 
"  and  to  come  across  French  people  everywhere  is 
like  living  in  a  fairy  story  where  the  fountains  run 
with  champagne.  I  like  their  talk  and  their  smiles, 
and  their  quickness,  and  their  kind,  pretty  ways. 
But  I  want  to  get  back  to  my  own  country,  too.  It 
is  only  in  your  own  country  that  you  know  what  other 
people  are  thinking.  Besides,  I  am  homesick  for  toast 
and  tea,  and  the  illustrated  papers,  and  a  cabman  who 
can  drive,  and  a  bobby  like  a  monument.  Is  it  windy 
to-night?  I  hardly  noticed.  Shall  I  have  a  smooth 
crossing  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Newby ;  "  a  wind's 
getting  up." 

Then   the   talk   turned   on   Channel   passages   and 


130         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

the  Channel  tunnel,  and  from  that  went  wide  over  the 
high  seas.  Mr.  Newby  had  been  round  the  world, 
and  told  stories  of  Japan  and  China;  and  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin  asked  questions  about  Indian  cities  and  about 
the  native  princes  he  had  met  out  there,  and  about 
their  European  hangers-on. 

"  Don't  you  know  a  Rajah  who  wants  a  secretary 
and  treasurer?"  said  she;  "a  rich  Rajah,  who  would 
give  Hyacinth  a  salary  for  managing  his  finances,  and 
me  some  big  diamonds  because  I  am  so  charming. 
I  am  tired  of  Europe.  I  should  like  to  get  away  into 
a  bigger,  wider  world." 

Mr.  Newby  said  he  did  not  think  a  native  Indian 
city  would  seem  very  big  or  very  wide  after  the  first 
three  months.  He  recommended  Charing  Cross.  That 
suggested  a  comparison  of  cities,  and  it  appeared  that 
Mme.  Varasdin  knew  most  of  the  important  European 
ones  west  of  Russia  and  south  of  Berlin.  Amabel 
who  only  knew  London  and  Paris,  could  not  join  in 
this  discussion,  and  she  fell  to  thinking  how  odd  it 
was  that  she  should  sit  amicably  at  table  with  people 
she  was  leaving  in  such  a  way  and  for  such  a  reason. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  both  should  be  real  —  the 
woman  who  crawled  and  stole  in  the  night,  and  this 
cheerful  dining-room  with  the  guests  and  the  busy 
servants,  and  Mr.  Newby,  and  the  well-dressed,  easy- 
mannered  woman  next  to  him.  But  when  Amabel 
looked  at  M.  Varasdin,  she  felt  some  return  of  the 
vague  uneasiness  left  by  the  shock  she  had  sustained. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          131 

As  the  dinner  proceeded,  his  face  grew  more  deeply 
flushed;  for  once,  wine  did  not  loose  his  tongue,  and 
the  man  who  was  usually  a  big  eater  and  noisy  and 
boastful  in  his  talk,  now  played  with  his  food,  con- 
sumed nothing,  and  sat  so  brooding  and  speechless 
that  Mr.  Newby  at  last  noticed  his  unnatural  mood. 

"What  are  you  hatching,  Varasdin?"  he  said. 
"  Going  to  make  your  fortune  to-morrow  ?  Laying 
the  plans  to-night  ?  " 

"  He  really  has  that  appearance,"  said  his  wife ; 
"  I  hope  it  is  so.  Hyacinth,  I  drink  to  your  success. 
Lay  your  plans  well  to-night.  See  that  they  succeed 
and  bring  us  good  fortune  to-morrow." 

"  We'll  all  join  in  that  toast,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  and 
he  raised  his  glass.  Of  course,  Amabel  did  so  too. 

"  I  wish  you  good  luck,"  she  said  to  M.  Varasdin. 

She  thought  he  behaved  rather  badly.  He  took  no 
notice  of  her  sentiment,  he  did  not  look  her  way; 
he  emptied  his  glass  in  such  haste  that  he  was  near 
choking  over  it,  and  he  set  it  down  with  such  an 
unsteady  hand  that  he  brushed  against  other  glasses 
and  upset  them.  His  wife  frowned  as  she  watched 
him. 

"  You  do  not  respond  to  mademoiselle,"  she  ob- 
served. "  She  drinks  to  your  success.  Drink  with 
her." 

At  his  wife's  bidding,  M.  Varasdin  refilled  his  glass 
and  sipped  from  it  with  a  perfunctory  bow  in  Amabel's 
direction,  but  his  eyes  avoided  her,  and  it  was  to  Mr. 


132          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

Newby,  who  sat  opposite,  that  he  addressed  his  next 
remarks. 

"  All  my  life  I  have  been  dogged  by  bad  luck," 
he  said.  "  It  is  little  enough  that  I  want  of  the  world, 
yet  I  don't  seem  able  to  get  it.  Why  does  one  man 
succeed  and  the  other  fail?  Can  you  teach  me  the 
trick?  But  I  suppose  you  have  never  earned  a  six- 
pence yourself.  You  took  the  trouble  to  be  born  of 
a  lucky  father.  You  found  your  bed  ready  made." 

"  Oh,  luck  changes,"  said  his  wife  lightly.  "  Yours 
is  on  its  way,  my  friend."  Then  she  deftly  stopped 
the  lachrymose  rejoinder  she  saw  coming  by  a  request 
for  her  cloak.  It  was  time  to  say  good-bye  and  start, 
she  reminded  Mr.  Newby. 

Amabel  thought  the  moment  a  difficult  one.  The 
Varasdins  were  quite  civil  although  her  stampede  from 
their  roof  was  hostile  and  perhaps  ridiculous.  Their 
urbanity  put  her  in  the  wrong,  and  though  she  held 
to  her  resolve,  she  felt  apologetic,  doubtful,  and  con- 
ciliatory as  she  offered  Mme.  Varasdin  her  hand. 
The  lady  just  took  it  and  let  it  drop  again.  She 
was  occupied  with  the  clasps  of  her  cloak  and  was 
evidently  not  stirred  either  to  compunction  or  to 
shame. 

"  Hyacinth  will  take  you  to  your  hotel,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  unnecessary,"  said  Amabel ;  "  I  can  have  a 
cab." 

"  Allow  me  to  render  you  this  small  service,  Made- 
moiselle," said  M.  Varasdin,  and  there  was  a  note 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          133 

of  offence  in  his  tone  as  if  he  scented  distrust  and 
defied  the  girl  to  express  it.  Amabel,  inclined  to  doubt 
her  own  conclusions,  gave  in  at  once.  They  started 
before  the  others,  and  M.  Varasdin  carried  the  small 
dressing-bag  she  had  taken  with  her  for  the  night. 
When  they  got  outside  M.  Varasdin  looked  at  the  sky 
and  observed  that  the  rain  held  off  and  that  if 
mademoiselle  pleased  they  might  walk  to  the  Place 
Vendome. 

"  But  you  are  turning  the  wrong  way,"  said  Amabel. 

"  It  is  a  quiet  way  that  I  know  very  well,"  said 
M.  Varasdin. 

Amabel  had  little  idea  of  locality,  and  she  had 
never  been  on  foot  in  this  neighbourhood  before. 
Her  companion  dived  down  side  streets,  took  a  turn 
to  the  left,  a  turn  to  the  right,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
hopelessly  confused  her.  From  where  they  walked 
now  she  could  not  have  found  her  way  to  the  Made- 
leine or  to  any  other  point  well  known  to  her.  They 
were  in  a  poorer  quarter  than  she  had  seen  yet,  and 
some  of  the  streets  were  empty  and  badly  lighted. 
She  kept  her  eyes  open  for  a  cab,  but  none  plied  for 
hire  here.  She  began  to  wish  herself  back  amongst 
the  busy  traffic  of  the  city,  where  the  crowd  would 
have  given  her  a  sense  of  safety.  The  man  beside  her 
hardly  opened  his  mouth,  and  that  was  not  his  wont, 
and  added  to  her  uneasiness.  She  tried  to  talk,  and 
her  own  voice  vexed  her,  it  was  so  artificial.  She 
forgot  her  fatigue  and  set  a  hurried  step,  and  looked 


134          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

furtively  behind  when  M.  Varasdin  dropped  back  a 
yard  or  two.  She  observed  that  he  did  this  when- 
ever the  street  was  empty,  but  that  when  other  people 
were  in  sight  he  kept  easily  abreast.  If  he  had  let 
her  lag  behind  she  thought  she  could  have  endured  a 
little  longer,  but  it  set  her  nerves  on  edge  to  listen  for 
his  footfall  at  her  heels  and  to  turn  her  head  and 
see  him  close  at  her  shoulder.  The  ignoble  lines  in  his 
face,  of  self-indulgence  and  ill-humour,  were  set  as 
if  in  a  mask  to-night,  and  as  he  hovered  near  her, 
still  and  threatening,  she  wondered  which  was  the 
real  man,  this  ruffian  or  the  bel  homme  all  volubility 
and  smiles. 

They  turned  now  into  a  long,  badly  lighted  street 
of  tumble-down  private  houses,  and  there  was  not  a 
sound  or  a  sight  here  to  allay  Amabel's  vague  alarm. 
The  very  windows  were  mostly  in  darkness,  the  noise 
of  busier  streets  sounded  far  away,  and  there  was  not 
a  footstep  on  the  pavement  except  their  own. 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  wrong,"  she  said,  with  decision. 
"  When  we  get  to  the  end  of  this  street  I  shall  take 
a  cab.  I  have  been  out  all  day  and  am  tired." 

She  spoke  because  the  silence  and  the  deserted  street 
were  terrifying.  It  reassured  her  to  break  the  silence 
and  to  talk  as  if  nothing  worse  was  on  her  mind  than 
her  weary  body  and  this  weary  trudge.  But  she  made 
the  mistake  that  a  timid  person  makes  when  he  snatches 
his  hand  too  suddenly  from  an  uncertain  dog  and  so 
decides  him  to  spring.  M.  Varasdin  understood  that 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          135 

it  was  now  or  never.  He  fell  a  step  behind  again,  and 
she  turned  her  head  at  once  and  caught  him  shifting 
the  bag  he  carried  from  the  left  hand  to  the  right. 

At  that  moment  a  house  door  opened  and  shut 
again  with  a  bang,  and  a  boy  came  whistling  into  the 
street.  He  walked  ahead  of  them  on  the  opposite 
side,  and  Amabel  had  it  in  her  mind  to  run  across  the 
road  and  walk  close  to  him  until  they  reached  a  more 
frequented  part  where  there  would  be  a  constant 
stream  of  people  and  the  chance  of  a  cab.  But  the 
boy  walked  fast,  and  was  fast  outstripping  them. 
She  hurried  her  own  steps  to  keep  up  with  him.  The 
man  by  her  side  muttered  some  remonstrance  she 
scarcely  heard,  and  placed  himself  close  to  her  and  on 
the  kerb,  so  that  she  must  pass  behind  him  or  in  front 
of  him  to  cross.  The  boy's  whistle  grew  a  little 
fainter  with  every  yard  they  covered,  and  she  had 
to  strain  her  eyes  now  to  make  out  his  figure.  As 
long  as  she  saw  it,  as  long  as  she  heard  him,  she 
thought  the  chances  might  still  be  with  her,  and  she 
looked  for  the  end  of  the  long  street  and  hoped  that 
her  strength  and  courage  would  not  fail  her.  For  it 
was  not  easy  to  walk  steadily  forward  with  a  cool 
head  and  her  heart  beating  hard  against  her  side.  The 
boy  changed  his  tune,  whistled  the  new  one  a  little 
louder,  and  as  it  seemed  to  her  for  a  moment  slackened 
his  pace.  She  leapt  in  front  of  M.  Varasdin,  thinking 
to  cross  at  any  hazards,  and  win  to  safety.  And  then 
she  halted  on  the  kerb,  stricken  helpless  with  disap- 


136         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

pointment.  The  boy  had  swung  open  the  heavy  door 
of  a  courtyard,  and  shut  it  behind  him.  She  looked 
despairingly  down  the  narrow  street,  and  saw  no  one 
to  take  his  place.  M.  Varasdin  had  come  close  behind 
her  again,  and  she  moved  swiftly  to  one  side.  But 
as  she  did  so,  she  saw  his  uplifted  arm,  and  before 
she  could  escape,  before  she  could  guard  herself  or 
even  scream,  the  bag  he  carried  came  down  on  her 
head  and  shoulder  with  a  smashing  blow.  She  groaned 
and  fell,  and  lost  all  consciousness. 

In  a  moment  M.  Varasdin  swooped  over  her  inert 
body,  and  unhooked  the  chatelaine  purse  from  her 
waistband.  The  girl  lay  quite  still,  and  he  could  not 
hear  her  breathe.  But  he  had  no  courage  to  make  sure 
that  she  was  dead.  His  own  limbs  were  so  tremulous 
now,  that  he  kept  on  his  feet  with  difficulty.  He 
stuffed  the  purse  into  his  pocket,  picked  up  the 
travelling  bag,  got  to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and 
walked  quickly  and  softly  to  the  end  of  it.  He  arrived 
at  an  open  place  where  other  streets  converged,  and 
where  other  people  were  passing.  At  one  corner  there 
was  a  cafe,  not  well  lighted,  and  as  far  as  the  outside 
seats  went,  nearly  empty.  He  sat  down  here  and  called 
for  a  cognac.  For  the  moment  he  was  at  the  end  of 
his  strength,  and  at  the  end  of  his  resources.  His 
thoughts  were  in  a  flurry.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
do  next,  or  what  would  happen  if  Amabel  was  dead, 
or  if  she  rose  as  a  witness  against  him.  He  did  not 
know  which  he  desired,  to  have  succeeded  as  a  mur- 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          137 

derer,  or  to  have  bungled  this  business  as  he  had 
done  many  others.  He  had  the  Eugenias  in  his  pocket, 
and  took  no  thought  of  them.  He  felt  sick  and  chilly, 
and  offended  with  fate;  but  above  all  offended  with 
his  wife  who  had  driven  him  to  do  this  dangerous  thing, 
and  sat  safely  at  home  herself.  He  cursed  her  for 
letting  him  undertake  it  without  money  in  his  pocket. 
He  could  not  make  good  his  escape  until  he  had  gone 
home  and  found  her,  and  procured  money  for  his 
travelling  expenses.  He  ought  to  have  foreseen  this, 
and  brought  money  with  him,  and  be  on  his  way 
already.  It  would  waste  hours  to  go  out  to  Passy  and 
return  to  Paris.  The  police  would  soon  be  astir.  But 
Anastasie  had  said  something  about  flight  being  un- 
necessary. He  could  not  remember  —  did  not  under- 
stand. The  waiter  might  bring  another  cognac.  He 
was  not  ill,  at  least  he  did  not  count  a  touch  of  ague  as 
illness.  The  man  might  bring  him  a  double  quantity 
if  he  pleased.  It  was  showery  to-day,  and  the  damp 
easily  affected  him.  Also,  he  had  walked  far.  One 
franc,  twenty?  It  was  well.  The  waiter  could  keep 
the  change. 

M.  Varasdin  lifted  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  set  it 
down  again,  because  his  trembling  hand  would  not  hold 
it.  His  face  was  petrified  in  fear  and  surprise,  and  if 
he  had  not  sat  alone  in  the  half  darkness  of  an  ill- 
lighted  corner  of  the  cafe,  his  condition  must  inevitably 
have  attracted  notice.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
pitiful  figure  of  Amabel  staggering  slowly  across  the 


138         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

place,  her  hand  held  to  her  head,  her  clothes  in  dis- 
order, her  face  discoloured  with  blood.  She  came 
straight  towards  him.  He  could  see  her  blind  and  ter- 
rified eyes;  and  he  rose  hurriedly  to  his  feet  with  a 
scream.  But  his  scream  was  drowned  in  the  shout  that 
went  up  from  every  side,  and  in  the  puffing  noise  of 
a  motor  car  that  dashed  out  of  a  side  street  across  the 
Place,  and  as  it  seemed,  right  over  the  girl.  When 
M.  Varasdin  came  to  his  senses  he  saw  a  crowd 
gathered  where  Amabel  had  stood.  The  waiter  who 
had  served  him  came  away  from  it  and  spoke  as  he 
passed. 

"  It  is  a  young  lady,"  he  said ;  "  she  is  quite  dead." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          139 


XV 


MADAME  VARASDIN  was  decidedly  in  a  difficult  mood. 
The  players  did  not  amuse  her,  and  she  left  the  theatre 
at  the  end  of  the  first  act.  She  had  no  mind  for  a  cafe, 
or  for  a  variety  show,  or  for  anything  else  that  Mr. 
Newby  proposed. 

"  I  am  not  very  well  to-night,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
an  influenza.  Get  me  a  cab  and  don't  come  near  me 
for  two  days.  I  detest  seeing  my  friends  when  I  am 
ill.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  hate  more,  and  that  is 
seeing  them  when  they  are  ill.  Sick  people  ought  to 
hide." 

"  But  you  seemed  all  right  at  dinner,"  said  Mr. 
Newby. 

"  These  things  come  on  very  quickly  sometimes. 
Yes,  call  that  driver  with  the  white  hat.  By  the  way, 
shall  you  see  Miss  Ferrers  again  before  she  starts  for 
England?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  I've  promised  to  be  at  Versailles 
all  day  to-morrow  with  two  Yanks  who  are  staying 
at  my  hotel,  and  we  start  early.  Yanks  are  so  beastly 
energetic.  Had  you  any  message  ?  " 

"  None  at  all.  Besides,  she  must  fetch  or  send  for 
her  trunks.  She  was  an  amiable  young  person.  It  is 
a  pity  she  was  subject  to  unamiable  delusions.  I  hope 


140         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

she  will  go  to  the  Ritz  to-night  and  to  England  to- 
morrow. But  I  do  not  feel  sure.  She  was  in  an 
excitable  condition.  I  think  she  needs  great  care.  I 
am  glad  to  see  that  your  interest  in  her  is  not  as  deep 
as  I  feared.  I  wish  I  felt  equally  safe  about  Hyacinth. 
You  observed  his  dejection  at  dinner.  The  news  of 
Miss  Ferrers'  departure  cast  that  gloom  over  him." 

"  Much  more  likely  the  state  of  the  market,"  said 
Mr.  Newby.  "  A  boom,  when  you're  not  in  it,  is  de- 
pressing." 

The  symptoms  of  lassitude  and  fever  that  had  af- 
flicted Mme.  Varasdin  vanished  as  the  cab  turned 
westwards.  She  was  impatient  to  be  at  home.  She 
thought  it  most  likely  that  Hyacinth's  courage  had 
failed  him,  that  he  had  done  nothing  at  all,  and  that 
life  would  go  on  as  it  threatened,  leading  them  in  no 
time  to  open  disgrace  and  destitution.  She  had  her 
jewels,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  sell  jewels  profitably 
when  once  the  police  are  on  your  tracks,  and  when 
they  do  not  belong  to  you  at  all  but  to  your  cred- 
itors. With  a  man  like  her  husband,  affairs  must 
needs  grow  worse  as  time  goes  on  and  proves  his 
incapacity  and  want  of  faith  by  a  whole  known  his- 
tory of  questionable  transactions.  His  friends  had 
fallen  from  him,  his  credit  was  gone,  his  name  was 
rank  in  the  market  -  place.  She  could,  of  course, 
leave  him  to  his  fate.  That  path  lay  before  her,  but 
without  seduction.  She  knew  too  much  about  the 
career  open  to  an  extravagant  woman,  unclassed,  idle, 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          141 

and  in  some  measure  fastidious.  The  future  held  one 
hope,  and  before  midnight  she  would  know  whether 
or  not  it  was  fulfilled.  Small  wonder  that  her  mood 
was  restless,  and  that  she  had  no  mind  for  the  un- 
realities of  the  play.  Her  fate  hung  on  her  husband's 
boldness  and  discretion,  and  she  knew  him  to  be  a 
coward  and  a  fool. 

In  the  improbable  event  of  his  success  there  was 
still  a  difficult  question  before  her,  and  she  saw  that 
she  might  have  to  settle  it  suddenly.  He  would  want 
to  keep  the  plunder  in  his  own  slippery  hands;  he 
would  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  it,  and  a  few 
months  hence  they  would  be  beggared  again.  This 
issue  was  much  in  her  thoughts  as  she  approached 
the  Avenue  Ernani.  She  looked  up  at  her  windows 
and  saw  no  light  there.  She  paid  the  cabman,  went 
up  in  the  lift,  and  opened  the  door  with  her  latch- 
key. She  looked  into  every  room  and  found  that  her 
husband  had  not  returned.  Then  she  sat  down  in  her 
own  room,  and  for  some  time  did  not  stir  even  to 
remove  her  hat  and  gloves.  She  had  to  think  and 
decide.  What  should  she  do  if  he  came  back  having 
attempted  nothing?  what  should  she  do  if  he  had 
tried  and  failed?  Suppose  he  absconded  with  the 
shares  and  she  never  saw  him  again?  suppose  he 
brought  them  back  and  refused  her  a  share  in  them? 
Whatever  he  did  he  would  act  solely  for  himself,  she 
knew.  She  hoped  nothing  of  him,  hardly  wished 
him  otherwise.  Most  of  all  she  wished  him  dead  and 


142          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

out  of  her  way.  For  a  long  while  now  she  had  seen 
that  this  solution  was  the  only  convenient  one;  he 
did  no  good  in  the  world.  No  one  would  miss  or 
bemoan  him.  He  had  not  won  the  esteem  or  the  af- 
fection of  one  fellow  -  creature  on  his  way  through 
life.  He  was  a  man  without  a  friend.  Unfortunately 
the  law  takes  no  count  of  quality,  and  it  is  as  dan- 
gerous to  rid  society  of  a  drone  as  of  a  hero.  It 
behoved  her  to  keep  out  of  danger,  and  she  thought 
she  saw  a  way,  a  way  she  would  not  take,  however, 
unless  the  need  arose.  Hyacinth  should  live  if  he 
showed  himself  amenable;  even  if  he  came  back  with 
empty  hands  he  should  live.  Nothing  should  con- 
demn him  short  of  his  own  greed. 

Mme.  Varasdin  got  up  and  unlocked  her  jewel  case. 
She  took  from  it  a  small  bottle  with  the  label  of  a 
Vienna  chemist.  It  contained  a  strong  preparation 
of  morphia  that  had  been  given  her  some  years  ago 
to  relieve  pain.  She  had  always  kept  it,  and  had 
sometimes  felt  tempted  to  use  it  and  so  shuffle  off 
the  coil  of  life.  She  had  never  before  thought  of 
administering  it  to  any  one  else.  She  would  not  think 
of  it  now  with  any  steadiness  or  decision,  but  she 
soaked  the  bottle  in  water  and  removed  the  label  and 
burnt  it.  The  little  bottle  she  hid  in  the  pouched 
bodice  of  her  dress.  Then  she  took  off  her  hat  and 
went  into  the  dining-room  and  turned  on  the  lights. 
She  had  just  put  brandy  on  the  sideboard  and  soda 
water  and  glasses,  when  she  heard  a  slight  sound  at 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          143 

the  front  door,  and  then  a  stealthy  step  in  the  hall. 
As  she  turned  round  her  husband  appeared  in  the 
room. 

He  was  trembling  with  triumph  and  excitement; 
yet  he  looked  about  him  as  he  came  in  and  she  saw 
that  he  was  afraid. 

"  I  am  alone,"  she  said.     "  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  I  have  succeeded  where  you  failed,"  said  he. 

His  wife  looked  at  the  bag  he  carried  in  his 
hand. 

"  I  see  you  have  brought  that  bag  here  as  a  wit- 
ness against  you,"  she  observed.  "  The  shares " 

"  The  shares  are  in  my  pocket,"  he  cried,  and  he 
put  down  the  bag  and  took  from  his  coat  pocket  the 
purse  containing  the  shares.  His  wife  stood  near  the 
sideboard  and  watched  him.  She  saw  him  open  the 
purse  and  she  saw  the  certificate  in  his  hands.  He 
unfolded  it,  fluttered  it  towards  her,  and  then  put  it 
in  his  coat  again.  The  purse  he  left  lying  on  the 
table. 

"  Are  you  safe  here  even  for  an  hour  ?  "  said  his 
wife. 

"  The  poor  girl  is  dead,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
shudder. 

"  You  would  certainly  not  be  safe  if  she  was  alive," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  You  told  me  I  should.  You  told  me  to  come 
back.  But  no  one  knows  I  am  here.  As  I  came  in 
I  gave  the  name  of  Duval,  the  people  above  us." 


144          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  What  makes  you  think  the  girl  is  dead  ?  How 
did  you  get  the  shares?" 

"How  does  one  get  anything  one  wants?  I  took 
them." 

"  Was  there  a  scene  ?  A  noise  ?  A  crowd  ?  How 
did  you  get  away  ?  " 

"  Ask  such  questions  of  a  fool  and  not  of  me.  I  am 
new  to  the  game,  yet  I  played  it  with  skill.  We  were 
in  a  deserted  street  —  I  had  this  bag  in  my  hands  — 
and  I  tell  you  once  for  all,  Anastasie,  that  I  will  not 
speak  of  what  happened.  A  man  of  my  calibre  can- 
not shrink  from  a  disagreeable  necessity,  but  I  sup- 
pose a  cook  who  has  to  wring  the  neck  of  a  pigeon 
does  not  dwell  on  it  afterwards  with  any  pleasure." 

"  A  cook  is  not  in  danger  of  the  guillotine,"  said 
Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  I  did  not  kill  the  girl  myself,"  said  her  husband 
sulkily. 

But  the  colour  had  gone  from  his  face,  and  his  voice 
was  harsh  and  shaky  when  he  began  to  speak  again. 

"  I  left  her  lying  on  the  pavement." 

"  Oh !  I  guessed  that,"  interrupted  his  wife.  "  You 
knocked  her  down,  took  her  purse,  and  ran  away  in 
a  fright,  the  proofs  gaping  in  your  hands.  Well  ?  " 

"  I  felt  dreadfully  upset.  My  knees  were  loose 
tinder  me.  So  I  sat  down  at  a  cafe " 

"How  far  off?" 

"  Beyond  the  end  of  the  street.  I  drank  three 
cognacs  before  my  strength  returned.  I  tell  you  that 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          145 

what  I  have  done  to-night  is  not  easy  to  do ;  and  what 
I  saw  next  was  not  pleasant  to  see.  The  girl  came 
staggering  across  the  Place  towards  me." 

"  I  thought  so." 

"  If  you  know  what  happened  I  may  save  myself 
the  trouble  of  telling  you.  Perhaps  you  know  what 
the  girl  looked  like . . .  that  she  had  her  hand  to  her 
head . . .  that  there  was  blood  on  her  face . . .  have  you 
that  picture  in  your  mind  ?  . . .  I  would  gladly  trans- 
fer it  from  my  own... and  what  came  next... that 
was  worse  to  see." 

"  Oh,  go  on !  "  said  Mme.  Varasdin,  with  exasper- 
ation. 

"  She  was  knocked  down  by  a  motor  car  and  killed 
on  the  spot." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  was  killed  ?  " 

"  Every  one  rushed  to  see  —  except  the  man  on  the 
motor  car.  He  got  clean  away.  Every  one  was  curs- 
ing and  shouting,  and  I  heard  several  people  say  she 
was  dead.  She  must  have  been.  I  saw  the  car  knock 
her  down." 

"  At  this  moment  she  is  probably  in  the  hands  of 
the  police  and  is  giving  evidence  against  you,"  said 
Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  But  if  she  is  dead  we  are  safe.  She  will  not  have 
her  address  on  her  clothes." 

"  You  can  never  tell.  She  might  have  a  card  or 
a  letter  on  her.  Dead  or  alive,  she  may  send  the 
police  here  any  moment  to  catch  you  —  with  her 


146         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

property  in  your  hands.  Is  there  no  river?  Are 
there  no  byways  in  Paris,  you  fool?  How  dare  you 
come  back  with  that  bag  and  that  purse  —  to  com- 
promise us  both  ?  " 

The  man's  face  was  dazed  and  his  body  was  shiver- 
ing with  fear. 

"  What  will  happen  if  she  lives  ? "  he  said,  in  a 
whisper. 

"  The  police  will  come  —  and  this  time  it  will  be 
Cayenne.  The  life  there  is  not  agreeable,  I  believe. 
Come;  pull  yourself  together,  my  friend.  Every 
minute  that  you  spend  here  is  a  folly." 

"  Why  did  you  tell  me  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  to  do  it  badly." 

M.  Varasdin  got  up,  his  eyes  staring  wide  at  his 
wife,  his  hands  thrown  out  towards  her. 

"  Give  me  money,"  he  said ;  "  I  must  go  straight 
to  Buda-Pesth  and  sell  the  shares." 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  said  his  wife.  "  You  must  go 
straight  to  South  America.  I  will  watch  events  here, 
and  when  it  is  safe  I  will  go  to  Buda-Pesth  and  sell 
the  shares." 

M.  Varasdin  looked  distrustfully  at  his  wife. 

"  I  ran  the  risk,"  he  said ;  "  they  are  mine.  I  mean 
to  turn  them  into  a  million.  As  for  South  America, 
it  is  too  obvious.  Besides,  it  lies  across  the  sea,  and 
I  have  always  thought  that  if  I  was  in  danger  I  would 
avoid  big  ports.  I  believe  in  the  Danubian  towns. 
From  Buda-Pesth  I  shall  go  to  Sofia." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          147 

"  I  advise  you,  if  you  value  your  safety,  to  leave 
the  shares  with  me,"  said  his  wife. 

He  hardly  heard  what  she  said.  He  was  listening 
to  every  sound  that  came  up  from  the  street  below, 
and  his  eyes  were  haggard. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.    "  Give  me  money." 

His  wife  did  not  move,  but  her  eyes  were  fastened 
on  him  intently,  and  she  watched  him  take  Amabel's 
purse  from  his  pocket  and  empty  the  contents  on  the 
table.  There  was  a  small  handkerchief,  some  loose 
gold  and  silver,  ten  hundred-franc  notes,  and  the 
folded  certificate  of  the  Eugenias. 

"  I  can  do  without  you,"  he  said. 

"  Are  you  going  to  keep  it  all  ?  "  she  asked ;  "  all 
the  money  as  well  as  the  shares  ?  " 

"  I  shall  want  it  if  the  police  are  after  me.  You 
can  any  time  raise  enough  to  join  me.  Sell  your 
pearls." 

"  The  French  police  are  quick  and  clever.  Of  course, 
you  will  change  your  name.  But  have  you  anything 
in  your  pockets  to  betray  you  —  except  the  shares  — 
any  letters  ?  Any  marks  on  your  clothes  ?  " 

The  man  dived  into  his  pockets  and  pulled  out  a 
silver  cigarette-case,  a  handkerchief,  and  various  cards 
and  letters. 

"  There  is  nothing  else,"  he  said.    "  Now  I  will  go." 

"  I  will  come  with  you  to  the  station,"  said  his 
wife. 

"  Shall  I  take  a  bag  with  what  I  want?" 


i48         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Nothing  —  nothing  by  which  you  might  be  known. 
If  you  were  wise  you  would  leave  me  the  Eugenias." 

"  And  never  see  either  them  or  you  again  —  and 
be  hunted  like  a  mad  dog  —  and  not  a  penny  to  make 
it  worth  while  —  do  you  take  me  for  a  fool  ?  You 
have  driven  me  into  a  crime  —  do  you  think  I  love 
the  sight  of  your  face  when  I  remember  the  girl's? 
I  struck  the  blow  —  but  it  is  you  who  have  a  heart 
of  stone." 

"  But  it  is  you  the  police  will  take,"  said  Mme. 
Varasdin,  and  she  laughed. 

"  We  waste  time,"  said  the  man ;  "  I  must  catch  the 
midnight  train." 

Mme.  Varasdin  went  to  her  own  rooms  and  put 
on  a  close  hat,  a  thick  veil,  and  a  dark,  long  cloak; 
clothes  in  which  she  was  inconspicuous  and  almost 
unrecognisable.  She  did  not  fasten  her  cloak  yet,  and 
she  carried  her  gloves  in  her  hands.  She  was  not 
away  three  minutes,  but  when  she  returned  to  her  hus- 
band she  found  him  in  a  state  of  collapse  that  threat- 
ened to  be  unmanageable.  He  was  shaking  like  a 
man  with  a  palsy;  when  he  tried  to  stand,  he  sank 
back  into  his  chair ;  when  he  tried  to  speak,  sobs  came 
from  his  throat  and  tears  rolled  down  his  grey 
shrunken  face.  He  met  his  wife's  eyes  and  found  no 
pity  in  them. 

"  I  can't  walk,"  he  moaned ;  "  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Mme.  Varasdin  went  to  the  sideboard.  She  filled 
a  high  tumbler  nearly  half  full  of  brandy,  she  took 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          149 

the  little  bottle  from  her  dress  and  emptied  it  into  the 
glass,  she  added  soda-water  and  carried  the  drink  to 
him. 

"  A  dose  of  morphia  will  do  him  no  harm,"  she  said 
to  herself,  and,  whether  she  believed  it  or  not,  her 
shifty  soul  hardly  knew.  She  watched  him  empty 
the  glass.  Then  she  swept  together  the  things  on  the 
table,  and  put  them  into  Amabel's  travelling-bag. 

"  This  must  go  into  the  Seine  to-night,"  she  said. 

"  I  feel  better,"  said  M.  Varasdin ;  "  I  could  walk 
some  distance  now.  We  will  take  a  cab  where  we  are 
not  known.  But  if  the  police  come  to-day  or  to- 
morrow, what  shall  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  shall  have  nothing  to  say.  I  shall  not  know 
where  you  are  or  what  you  have  done.  We  shall  not 
be  able  to  communicate  with  each  other,  but  that  will 
not  trouble  you  greatly,  I  imagine.  You  will  console 
yourself  by  reflecting  that  I  can  sell  the  pearls." 

"  I  wonder  why  you  are  coming  with  me  to  the 
station  ?  "  said  the  man  suspiciously.  "  I  don't  believe 
you  care  whether  I  am  dead  or  alive." 

"  I  am  coming  to  get  rid  of  this  bag,  and  to  see 
you  don't  muddle  your  departure,"  said  Mme.  Varas- 
din. "  You  know  I  am  not  fond  of  notoriety  and  the 
guillotine." 

"  You  would  not  care  —  '  muttered  M.  Varasdin. 
"  You  would  think  of  yourself,  and  not  of  me,  even 
then.  You  have  a  heart  of  stone." 


150         THE  THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 


XVI 

THEY  crept  softly  down  the  stairs  and  across  the  dark 
hall  to  the  front  door  without  waking  the  concierge. 

"  The  less  attention  we  draw  to  ourselves  the  better," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  Our  door  shuts  without  a 
sound  if  one  is  careful." 

"  I  can  hardly  drag  myself  along,"  said  M.  Varasdin. 
"  I  feel  very  queer ;  I  am  drunk,  I  believe.  You  must 
have  given  me  too  much  brandy." 

Mme.  Varasdin  looked  up  and  down  the  broad,  well- 
lighted  avenue.  There  were  a  few  people  about  still, 
and  the  tram  cars  were  still  running.  If  her  husband 
fell  like  a  log  here  in  the  street,  and  a  crowd  gathered 
and  the  police  interfered,  all  they  had  done  to-night 
would  be  of  no  avail,  would  be  made  horribly  public,  and 
would  bring  on  her  head  the  utmost  misery  and  shame. 
The  treasure  for  which  she  had  thrown  away  the  last 
shreds  of  self-respect  would  be  found  on  his  person 
and  lost  to  her ;  the  drug  in  his  system  would  be  found 
by  some  meddling  physician,  found  perhaps  while  Hya- 
cinth was  still  conscious  and  could  charge  her,  found 
and  treated  perhaps,  so  that  to  her  torment  he  remained 
alive.  As  he  lurched  beside  her,  stupid,  sick,  and  cov- 
etous, she  did  not  repent  of  what  she  had  done,  though 
she  threw  a  sop  to  her  flickering  conscience  by  telling 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          151 

herself  that  the  dose  had  been  haphazard,  and  that  he 
might  not  die. 

She  turned  down  a  by-street  as  soon  as  she  could. 
He  shambled  along  beside  her,  but  his  gait  began  to 
drag  and  his  breathing  to  sound  heavy,  and  she  was 
glad  to  hail  the  first  close  cab  they  met.  She  helped 
him  in,  and  then  she  told  the  driver  to  go  by  the 
Champs  Elysees  to  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard  des  Ita- 
liens,  a  route  that  at  this  hour  of  night  would  take 
them  through  the  crowds  coming  away  from  the  Opera 
and  from  theatres.  She  was  not  quite  sure  of  what 
would  happen  next,  but  she  knew  she  must  somehow, 
make  her  escape,  and  that  it  would  be  easiest  to  make 
it  in  a  crowd. 

"Did  you  tell  him  the  Garde  de  1'Est?"  said  M. 
Varasdin,  when  they  had  started. 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  said ;  "  when  the  police  are  after 
you  he  might  remember  driving  you  there.  We  will 
get  out  somewhere  near  and  walk  to  the  station." 

The  man  made  no  answer  but  lolled  in  the  corner  of 
the  cab,  his  head  shaken  with  every  jolt,  his  arms 
hanging  limply  at  his  sides.  When  they  passed  a  cafe, 
or  crossed  one  of  the  open  places  where  streets  converge 
and  there  are  many  twinkling  lights,  Mme.  Varasdin 
looked  anxiously  at  his  face,  and  she  saw  that  the 
pupils  of  his  eyes  were  small  and  sharp,  and  his  mouth 
a  little  open ;  while  his  breathing  grew  heavier  and  his 
hands  felt  cold. 

She  waited  a  little  longer.    They  were  crossing  the 


152          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

Place  de  la  Concorde  when  she  ventured  very  cautious- 
ly to  unfasten  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  Her  own  breath 
came  with  difficulty,  the  suspense  of  the  moment  was 
so  painful.  Everything  hung  on  the  next  few  minutes, 
her  future,  her  freedom,  ease,  or  infamy.  She  felt 
neither  pity  nor  shame,  but  horror  of  his  heavy  body 
and  his  helplessness.  To  be  shut  up  with  him  turned 
her  faint,  and  for  an  instant  she  wavered,  thinking  to 
call  for  help.  Then  she  roused  herself,  took  the  little 
bottle  from  its  hiding-place,  and  left  it  beside  him  on 
the  seat.  Her  hand  paused  on  his  arm,  slid  to  his 
heart,  felt  the  quick,  uneven  beats,  and  crept  very  care- 
fully to  the  place  where  the  treasure  was  carried.  He 
made  no  sign.  She  understood  that  he  was  past  all 
desire,  and  she  half  envied  him.  He  had  persistently 
stood  at  ease  while  others  struggled,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  he  was  doing  so  still,  sleeping,  safe  and  idle, 
while  she  heard  the  wolves. 

But  she  held  in  her  hand  the  scrap  of  paper  for 
which  she  had  gone  to  the  depths.  She  had  possession 
of  the  Eugenias  and  the  roll  of  notes,  and  a  handful 
of  loose  coin.  And  the  miracle  went  on,  the  treasure 
was  hidden  now  on  her  own  person,  and  still  he  did 
not  wake.  She  looked  out  of  the  cab  at  the  busy  life 
of  the  main  Boulevards  they  were  now  traversing. 
From  each  theatre  a  crowd  came  forth  to  swell  the 
evening  traffic,  the  cafes  were  overflowing,  and  where- 
ever  there  was  some  slight  attraction,  the  changing 
lights  of  an  advertisement,  or  a  gay  shop  window, 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          153 

people  gathered  in  clusters  on  the  pavement.  The  ve- 
hicular traffic  of  Paris  is,  of  course,  insignificant  com- 
pared with  that  of  London,  but  the  combination  of  bad 
driving,  furious  motor  cars,  steam  trams,  and  heavy 
carts,  bring  about  some  pretty  tangles.  Mme.  Varasdin 
was  on  the  look-out  for  a  block  of  this  kind,  and  she 
found  herself  in  one  near  the  Opera  House,  from  which 
a  stream  of  carriages  was  now  debouching.  The  in- 
stant her  chance  came  she  had  the  wit  and  nerve  to 
take  it.  On  one  side  of  the  cab  there  was  a  puffing 
motor  car,  on  the  other  a  labyrinth  of  carriages,  her 
horse's  head  was  nearly  inside  the  door  of  a  tram  car, 
there  were  market  carts  and  newspaper  boys,  and 
cyclists  with  Chinese  lanterns,  and  a  frantic  gendarme 
with  a  white  baton;  and  behind  her  more  carts  and 
carriages,  all  for  the  moment  at  a  standstill.  She 
opened  the  cab  door,  saw  that  the  driver  was  absorbed 
in  an  altercation  with  a  cyclist,  and  stepped  to  the 
ground  unobserved.  The  clamour  was  so  great  that 
she  ventured  to  push  the  door  to  again,  and  then  she 
slipped  to  the  back  of  the  cab,  and,  with  some  risk  to 
her  limbs,  made  her  way  to  the  pavement.  As  she 
reached  it  the  tram  car  started,  and  the  whole  block 
of  vehicles  moved  slowly  on. 

Mme.  Varasdin  had  Amabel's  bag  in  her  hands,  and 
every  hour  that  passed  made  it  a  more  dangerous  thing 
to  carry.  There  was  no  telling  how  soon  the  police 
would  be  on  her  track  or  to  which  members  of  the 
force  she  was  known.  She  looked  business-like  and 


154         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

unremarkable  in  her  dark  cloak  and  hat,  and  as  she 
quietly  took  her  place  in  a  Passy  tram  car  she  glanced 
through  her  thick  veil  at  her  fellow-passengers  with 
the  placid  air  of  a  woman  who  has  nothing  on  her 
mind.  She  paid  her  fare  with  a  coin  she  had  taken 
from  her  husband's  pocket,  and  when  she  got  to  the 
Etoile  she  alighted  and  walked  without  hurry  to  the 
Trocadero.  From  there  she  found  her  way  to  a  no- 
man's-land  left  by  the  destruction  of  some  Exhibition 
buildings,  a  waste  area  of  rubble,  bricks,  and  sand. 
It  took  her  to  a  road  that  gave  on  the  river,  and  she 
went  close  down  to  the  water  and  saw  that  at  this  late 
hour  no  one  was  in  sight.  She  threw  the  bag  as  far 
as  she  could  towards  the  middle  of  the  Seine.  It 
splashed  as  it  fell,  and  before  the  water  had  closed  over 
it  Mme.  Varasdin  had  turned  her  back  and  was  on  her 
way  to  the  lighted  streets  again. 

Her  brain  was  hard  at  work  all  the  time  trying  to 
follow  all  the  various  possible  issues  of  the  night's 
work.  If  Hyacinth  lived  and  charged  her  she  would 
defy  him  to  prove  his  charges.  He  would  have  no 
witness  but  the  cabman,  and  it  was  impossible  that  he 
should  have  seen  her  features  when  she  engaged  him. 
That  Hyacinth  should  be  driving  with  a  nameless 
woman  and  that  she  should  have  robbed  him  was  of 
a  piece  with  his  life.  Mme.  Varasdin  would  have  no 
difficulty  in  proving  that.  If  he  died,  the  empty 
bottle  and  his  empty  pockets  pointed  to  suicide,  to  the 
determined  suicide  of  a  nameless  and  desperate  man. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          155 

The  police  would  make  some  effort  to  discover  his 
name  and  would  fail,  and  he  would  be  buried,  and 
that  would  be  the  end  of  his  story. 

If  Amabel  lived,  she  would  charge  Hyacinth  with 
assault  and  robbery,  and  Hyacinth  would  have  vanished 
and  his  injured  and  deserted  wife  would  not  know  his 
whereabouts.  If  Amabel  died,  her  friends  would  raise 
an  inquiry  perhaps,  but  Mme.  Varasdin  could  not  see 
that  she  was  in  any  danger  of  being  connected  with  it. 
The  girl  had  been  knocked  down  by  a  motor  car  in  a 
low  quarter  of  Paris,  and  a  low  crowd  had  gathered 
round  her,  and  some  one  in  the  crowd  had  made  off 
with  her  property.  Every  one  would  believe  that  had 
taken  place. 

Of  course,  Mme.  Varasdin  saw  that  she  must  not 
sell  the  Eugenias  yet,  and  that  weeks  or  even  months 
hence  the  transaction  would  be  risky  and  difficult.  But 
with  the  help  of  Uncle  Joseph  she  thought  it  might  be 
managed.  She  would  give  him  a  good  commission, 
and  he  would  sell  in  one  of  the  big  markets.  The 
shares  would  probably  pass  from  hand  to  hand  as  a 
bank-note  does;  and  it  is  usually  as  difficult  to  trace 
a  bank-note  as  a  coin. 

Mme.  Varasdin  had  to  ring  at  the  street  door  to  get 
back  into  the  house,  but  the  concierge  was  able  to  let 
her  in  without  getting  out  of  bed.  As  she  passed  his 
office  she  did  as  M.  Varasdin  had  done  and  shouted 
the  name  of  the  family  that  lived  above  her,  a  lively 
family  of  many  members,  who  all  kept  more  or  less 


156          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

late  hours.  She  had  to  find  her  way  to  the  lift  in  the 
dark  and  send  herself  up,  and  then  she  went  into  her 
dining-room,  where  the  gas  was  still  turned  on,  and 
where  the  glass  from  which  her  husband  drank  was 
still  on  the  table.  And  now  for  the  first  time  her  nerve 
gave  way  a  little.  This  morning  the  flat  had  held  a 
household,  and  in  a  day  she  had  rid  it  of  life.  She 
stood  here  alone  with  her  dishonour  and  the  stakes 
for  which  she  had  played.  As  she  caught  sight  of  her 
face  in  a  mirror  she  wondered  that  any  one  could  have 
sat  beside  her  and  raised  no  cry.  Hunted  and  haggard 
she  looked  now  that  the  strain  was  slackening,  and  no 
one  stood  by  to  see.  She  felt  solitary,  she  listened  to 
every  sound,  and  her  mind  began  to  follow  new  issues 
and  to  scent  new  dangers.  Her  eye  fell  on  the  empty 
glass;  she  took  it  up  and  observed  a  sediment  at  the 
bottom.  If  the  police  had  arrived  in  her  absence  they 
would  have  seized  it,  and  as  she  carried  it  to  the 
kitchen  she  asked  herself  whether  she  had  forgotten 
any  other  evidence  as  damning.  When  she  had  washed 
the  glass  at  the  sink  and  sluiced  away  all  traces  of  the 
contents,  she  went  back  to  the  dining-room.  Her 
husband  had  come  straight  in  here  to-night,  and  had 
gone  from  here  to  the  street;  the  things  he  had  taken 
from  his  coat  were  in  the  Seine,  the  glass  from  which 
he  had  drunk  stood  now  with  other  glasses  in  a  pantry 
cupboard,  the  brandy  went  back  into  the  sideboard.  If 
the  concierge  had  seen  him  come  it  did  not  matter 
much.  His  exit  with  his  wife  had  been  unobserved, 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          157 

and  so  was  her  stealthy  return.  Mme.  Varasdin  opened 
a  half -bottle  of  champagne,  drank  it  as  she  undressed, 
and  fell  asleep. 

At  ten  o'clock  next  day  she  was  out  of  the  house 
again  and  on  her  way  to  Paris.  She  would  not  buy 
papers  at  the  nearest  kiosk  and  take  them  upstairs  to 
read,  because  in  Paris  you  never  know  with  whom 
your  concierge  will  gossip,  or  which  of  your  habits  he 
will  observe.  She  walked  to  the  Etoile,  got  a  sheaf 
of  papers  there,  took  a  close  carriage,  and  told  the 
man  to  drive  to  a  registry  office  at  the  other  end  of 
the  town.  He  started,  and  she  looked  eagerly  through 
each  printed  page,  and  every  paper  had  two  items  of 
news  set  amongst  other  tragedies  and  accidents  of  the 
night.  One  paragraph  described  three  motor  car 
disasters,  the  moderate  crop  of  twenty-four  hours.  A 
car  had  dashed  down  a  hill  and  broken  itself  and  its 
occupants  against  the  sides  of  a  bridge;  a  car  had 
frightened  the  horses  in  a  private  carriage;  a  car  had 
knocked  down  a  young  lady  and  vanished  without  ex- 
pressing regret  or  making  inquiries.  The  young  lady 
lay  unconscious  at  the  Hospital  of  Laborisiere,  and 
was  not  expected  to  live.  Her  identity  was  not  known. 

The  other  paragraph  described  the  suicide  in  a  cab 
of  a  nameless  gentleman  of  middle  age.  An  empty 
bottle  that  had  contained  a  strong  solution  of  morphia 
had  been  found  beside  him.  The  cabman  told  a  story 
of  a  woman  with  the  man  and  of  her  disappearance. 
But  the  gentleman  had  not  been  robbed ;  a  watch  and 


158          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

chain  of  some  value  were  on  him  and  a  few  small 
coins.  The  police  were  making  inquiries,  but  they  had 
no  clues,  and  they  placed  no  faith  in  the  cabman's 
story.  The  Commissary  of  Police  had  ordered  the  body 
to  be  on  view  at  the  Morgue  for  three  days  for  pur- 
poses of  identification. 

The  Press  did  not  pay  great  attention  to  any  of 
these  events.  Its  space  and  its  talent  were  engaged 
that  week  in  chronicling  the  Mexican  Boom.  The  ex- 
citement in  London  and  New  York  was  indescribable, 
and  every  one  with  a  pen  was  hard  at  work  describing 
it.  The  fever  had  touched  Paris  too.  Women  were 
speculating  as  wildly  as  men.  Eugenias  had  rushed 
up  to  fifty. 

"  But  it  is  magnificent.  It  is  worth  while,"  said 
Mme.  Varasdin  to  herself,  and  her  hand  crept  to  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  where,  for  the  present,  she  carried 
the  shares.  "  If  all  goes  well,  perhaps  I  can  sell  a  little 
sooner.  It  would  be  horrible  to  keep  them  for  the 
slump.  I  will  not  hide  them  in  the  attic  just  yet.  At 
present  I  am  in  no  danger,  and  to  rummage  in  the 
attic  might  attract  suspicion.  When  once  Hyacinth 
is  buried,  the  girl  may  live  or  die,  but  she  will  have 
no  case  against  me." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          159 


XVII 

THE  evening  papers  added  nothing  of  importance.  The 
suicide  had  not  been  identified;  the  unknown  young 
lady  who  had  been  knocked  down  by  a  motor  car  still 
lay  at  the  hospital  between  life  and  death,  and  unable 
to  give  any  account  of  herself.  By  the  following  day 
both  cases  had  been  crowded  out  of  the  papers.  A 
crime  passionnel,  with  lugubrious  developments,  mag- 
netised the  city,  and  the  obscure  man,  who  had  so 
plainly  and  commonly  killed  himself,  the  unknown  girl, 
one  motor  car  victim  amongst  many,  were  both  for- 
gotten. Mme.  Varasdin  had  a  new  maidservant  in  the 
place  of  the  two  she  had  dismissed,  and  the  concierge 
was  told  that  mademoiselle  had  returned  to  England, 
and  that  monsieur,  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  had 
accompanied  her  before  proceeding  on  a  business 
journey. 

"  Why  have  they  taken  no  trunks  ?  "  said  the  wife 
of  the  concierge. 

"  People  do  not  always  stop  for  trunks,"  he  said. 
"  Have  you  observed  that  madame  looks  ill  and 
anxious?  Monsieur  was  certainly  a  charming  man, 
and  mademoiselle  doubtless  found  him  irresistible.  I 
find  it  very  natural,  and  madame  has  the  trunks  to 
console  her.  Let  us  hope  they  were  well  filled.  But 


160         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

I  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  this  telegram  that  has 
just  arrived  for  mademoiselle." 

It  was  true  that  Mme.  Varasdin  looked  ill.  Every 
hour  increased  her  sense  of  security,  but  it  increased 
her  impatience  too,  and  she  burned  to  be  gone  and 
gather  in  the  fruits  of  her  daring.  Besides,  the  days 
were  interminable  and  the  nights  without  peace.  If 
she  had  felt  quite  safe,  or  if  she  could  have  shifted 
her  quarters,  she  thought  the  strain  of  waiting  would 
have  been  slight.  But  she  saw  that  some  inquiry  with 
regard  to  Amabel  might  arise  at  any  moment,  and  that 
if  she  could  stay  and  face  it,  her  future  position  would 
be  stronger  than  if  she  yielded  to  her  nerves  and  fled. 
And  it  was  not  agreeable  to  spend  endless,  silent  hours 
in  the  flat,  where  every  corner  and  every  object  ac- 
cused her.  She  studied  railway  time-tables  a  good 
deal,  and  formed  her  plans  carefully.  She  thought 
she  would  stay  on  in  Paris  a  week  or  so,  and  see  any 
one  who  came.  Her  husband  had  vanished;  Amabel 
had  vanished.  That  was  the  story  she  had  to  tell. 
For  their  fate  from  the  moment  she  saw  them  depart 
together  she  was  not  responsible. 

She  had  packed  a  small  handbag  with  her  jewels, 
her  cash,  and  a  few  necessaries;  and,  instead  of  the 
indoor  gowns  she  usually  wore,  she  put  on  every 
morning  now  a  neat  cloth  travelling-dress  and  walking- 
shoes.  The  Eugenias  she  still  carried  on  her  person, 
and  her  pearls  she  had  sold  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
She  did  not  want  to  start  in  a  hurry  and  leave  her 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          161 

clothes  behind  her,  but  she  wanted  to  be  ready  if  the 
necessity  arose.  With  all  her  thinking,  she  could  not 
see  every  possible  issue  of  a  situation  that  involved 
several  people,  one  of  whom  still  hung  between  life 
and  death.  Some  accident  might  yet  undo  her,  unless 
she  could  get  clean  away. 

The  second  day  had  come  and  half  gone,  when  her 
new  maid  burst  into  the  room  and,  with  the  fuss  and 
loquacity  of  the  untrained  continental  servant,  an- 
nounced that  an  English  gentleman  waited  at  the  door 
and  would  not  be  denied.  He  asked  to  see  an  English 
lady  who  lived  on  the  flat,  and  he  would  not  take  her 
assurance  that  madame  lived  there  alone.  Mme.  Va- 
rasdin  had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  probably 
have  Mr.  Sheringham  to  deal  with,  but  she  had  not 
expected  him  so  soon.  As  she  hesitated,  he  walked 
in  and  made  some  apology  for  his  intrusion.  But 
his  manner  was  aloof  and  business-like,  and,  as 
the  maid  shut  the  door  behind  her,  he  asked  for  Ama- 
bel. 

"  Miss  Ferrers  left  me  the  day  before  yesterday," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

"  The  day  I  called  here !  Why  did  she  leave  so 
suddenly  ?  " 

"  Why  have  you  come  back  so  suddenly  ?  You  bade 
me  good-bye  for  a  fortnight." 

"  I  telegraphed  to  Miss  Ferrers  yesterday  and  re- 
ceived no  answer." 

"  Naturally.    She  was  not  here  to  receive  or  answer 


162          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

anything,  and  I  cannot  help  you.  I  do  not  know  her 
whereabouts." 

"  I  suppose  she  left  some  address  for  letters." 

"  Not  with  me." 

"  I  suppose  she  went  straight  to  England  ?  " 

Mme.  Varasdin's  hands  and  eyebrows  expressed  her 
ignorance. 

"  Let  me  see,"  she  said ;  "  to-day  is  Friday.  It  was 
on  Wednesday  that  you  called  —  on  Wednesday  that 
mademoiselle  was  out  all  day  —  running  about  the 
streets  of  Paris,  it  appears,  with  Mr.  Newby.  No  one 
can  blame  me.  I  had  no  authority.  But  it  is  unfor- 
tunate that  the  young  ladies  of  your  country  are  not 
more  convenable,  more  like  French  young  ladies. 
Their  freedom  scandalises  us." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  does,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham.  "  But 
what  happened  ?  " 

"  She  returned  towards  evening,  still  with  Mr. 
Newby,  and  said  she  would  not  spend  another  night 
in  the  house." 

"  I  must  see  Newby,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham. 

"  He  is  still  in  Paris,  I  believe,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

Something  in  her  tone  made  Sheringham  pause.  He 
saw  that,  under  her  bland  manner,  she  was  in  a  fer- 
ment. Her  eyes  shiftily  avoided  his,  sometimes  by 
looking  past  him,  sometimes  by  almost  hiding  beneath 
her  heavy  eyelids,  and  while  she  talked,  her  restless 
fingers  were  at  their  old  trick,  playing  now  with  the 
toys  of  her  chatelaine  and  now  with  her  rings. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          163 

"  And  how  is  Monsieur  Varasdin  ?  "  said  Shering- 
ham.  The  question  was  one  to  mark  time.  He  took 
little  interest  in  that  gentleman's  welfare. 

"  I  have  no  idea  where  he  is,"  said  his  wife. 

Sheringham's  glance  measured  her  again  —  he  saw 
nothing  to  trust  or  esteem.  He  felt  sure  she  was  play- 
ing her  own  game,  probably  a  malevolent  game,  and 
he  feared  lest  Amabel  should  be  a  pawn  on  the  losing 
side. 

"  Where  did  you  last  see  Miss  Ferrers  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  At  the  door  of  the  restaurant  where  we  had  all 
dined  with  Mr.  Newby  —  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"And  where  did  you  last  see  your  husband?" 

"  Mais  —  mon  Dieu  —  at  the  door  of  the  restaurant. 
Is  it  not  plain?  They  departed  together." 

"  Do  you  want  to  insinuate  that  they  are  together 
now  ?  " 

"  You  have  not  known  Hyacinth  for  fifteen  years," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin,  with  a  sigh.  "  He  is  one  of  those 
men  no  woman  or  girl  can  resist.  His  adventures  have 
been  like  the  stars  in  the  sky.  I  have  always  forgiven 
him,  but  it  has  not  always  been  easy." 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  don't  believe  a  word 
you  are  saying,"  observed  Sheringham. 

"  I  can  hardly  expect  you  to.  Of  course,  you  are 
very  angry ;  but  as  time  goes  on  you  will  believe.  Mr. 
Newby  will  tell  you  they  started  together.  They  have 
disappeared.  They  give  no  sign.  Ask  Miss  Ferrers' 
friends  if  she  has  arrived  in  England.  Ask  at  the 


164         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

Ritz,  where  Mr.  Newby  engaged  a  room,  if  she  slept 
there.  I  have  done  nothing." 

"  That  is  odd,"  said  Sheringham  suspiciously. 
"  Why  have  you  done  nothing  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  my  husband,"  said  Mme.  Varas- 
din.  "  As  far  as  I  can  I  always  avoid  an  open  scandal. 
What  should  I  gain  by  it?  Hyacinth  will  come  back 
to  me." 

Mr.  Sheringham  took  up  his  hat  and  walked  to  the 
door,  without  offering  to  shake  hands  with  the  injured 
wife.  She  followed  him  a  little  way,  and  her  voice 
wooed  him  as  he  departed. 

"  Come  back  and  tell  me  what  you  discover,"  she 
said. 

"  I  may  come  back  —  it  depends  upon  what  hap- 
pens," said  Mr.  Sheringham.  "  But  I  am  quite  sure 
that  your  story  is  preposterous.  You  have  probably 
hidden  your  husband " 

He  was  checked  by  the  start  and  the  sudden  pallor 
he  saw  on  Mme.  Varasdin's  face. 

"  Hidden  him  from  his  creditors,"  he  finished  lamely ; 
but  as  he  drove  to  Mr.  Newby's  hotel,  it  was  the 
lady's  glance  as  he  left  her  that  haunted  him. 

"  She  is  afraid  of  something,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  badly  afraid." 

Mr.  Newby,  for  a  wonder,  was  in,  and  expressed 
his  surprise  at  seeing  Mr.  Sheringham  in  Paris  again 
so  soon.  He  gave  his  guest  an  easy-chair  and  a  cigar, 
and  asked  after  the  Boom. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          165 

Sheringham  said  it  was  still  growing,  and  that  he 
would  be  glad  of  a  whisky  and  soda. 

"  I  have  just  called  on  Mme.  Varasdin,"  he  said, 
when  his  friend  had  rung  and  given  the  order. 

"  I  thought  of  calling  there  myself  this  evening," 
said  Mr.  Newby.  "Is  she  better?" 

"  She  didn't  say  she  had  been  ill." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  since  the  night  before  last,  when 
we  dined  together.  The  truth  is,  I  feel  a  little  bit 
awkward.  You  never  know  how  a  woman's  going 
to  take  anything,  and  as  for  seeing  that  there  are  dif- 
ferent sorts  in  the  world,  and  that  you  have  to  con- 
duct yourselves  accordingly,  it's  beyond  any  woman. 
But  it  was  a  rum  start,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  What  was  a  rum  start  ?  "  asked  Sheringham. 

"  Oh !  haven't  you  seen  Miss  Ferrers  ?  I  suppose 
there  has  hardly  been  time.  When  did  you  leave  Lon- 
don?" 

"  By  the  early  boat  this  morning." 

"  Miss  Ferrers  left  yesterday." 

"Did  you  see  her  off?" 

"  Unfortunately  it  was  impossible.  I  was  nailed  to 
spend  the  whole  day  in  Versailles." 

A  waiter  came  in  with  the  whisky  and  soda  for 
Sheringham,  and  until  he  had  gone  the  two  men 
smoked  and  waited. 

"  Can  yon  tell  me  why  Miss  Ferrers  left  Paris  in 
such  a  hurry  ?  "  said  Sheringham,  when  they  were  by 
themselves  again. 


i66         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"I  —  think  she  got  frightened." 

"  Frightened !  " 

His  voice  and  his  arrested  hand  showed  that  he  had 
taken  alarm  himself.  His  cigar  went  out  while  he 
listened  to  what  Mr.  Newby  had  to  say. 

"  I  met  Miss  Ferrers  in  the  Salon.  I  took  her  to 
the  Bois,  where  she  expected  to  meet  you.  She  told 
a  queer  story  about  Mme.  Varasdin  going  into  her 
room  at  night  and  stealing  her  purse.  It  had  upset 
her  a  bit,  and  she  said  she  would  return  to  England 
next  day.  I  went  back  to  the  Avenue  Ernani,  and 
something  seemed  to  frighten  her  there  again.  A 
servant  she  liked  had  been  sent  away.  So  she  said 
she  would  sleep  at  the  Ritz,  and  I  engaged  a  room 
for  her." 

"  You  believed  her  story  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  Mme.  Varasdin  spoke  of  it  herself,  said 
she  had  been  sleep-walking.  She  is  a  very  clever  lady, 
and  has  a  great  deal  of  je  ne  sais  quoi  about  her,  but 
the  funny  thing  in  clever  people  is  that  they  take  most 
of  the  others  for  fools.  Sleep-walking  is  too  thin. 
Eugenias  are  at  fifty,  and  Miss  Ferrers  had  a  thousand 
under  her  pillow.  I  didn't  want  to  frighten  her " 

He  stopped  short,  because  he  saw  that  he  had  most 
effectually  frightened  Sheringham. 

"  I  never  thought  about  those  accursed  Eugenias," 
said  the  great  financier.  "  The  girl  was  carrying  a 
thousand  about  with  her,  and  these  wolves  knew  it. 
Is  it  true  that  she  left  the  restaurant  with  Varasdin?  " 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          167 

"  He  was  to  see  her  to  the  hotel.  I  had  promised 
to  take  his  wife  round  the  Montmartre  theatres." 

"  We  must  go  to  the  hotel  at  once  and  make  in- 
quiries," said  Sheringham.  "  I  am  uneasy.  You  don't 
know,  of  course.  Varasdin  has  disappeared." 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other. 

"  Telegraph  to  England,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  Come  to  the  Ritz,"  said  Sheringham,  and  they 
got  into  a  cab  and  drove  straight  to  the  Place  Ven- 
dome. 

The  hotel  clerk  turned  over  the  pages  of  his  ledger 
and  had  some  conversation  with  another  clerk.  He 
remembered  Mr.  Newby,  and  the  room  had  been  re- 
served on  Wednesday  night  for  the  young  lady,  but 
the  young  lady  had  not  appeared. 

"  Oh,  come ! "  said  Mr.  Newby,  "  there's  some 
muddle.  You've  a  lot  of  people  going  in  and  out. 
A  tall  young  English  lady,  dressed  in  grey,  and  next 
morning  you  sent  to  the  Avenue  Ernani  for  her 
trunks." 

"  No,  they  didn't,"  interposed  Sheringham.  "  The 
concierge,  when  he  gave  me  my  telegram,  said  the 
trunks  had  never  left  the  house  at  all.  That  struck  me 
as  suspicious." 

"  I  remember  Miss  Ferrers,"  said  the  clerk.  "  She 
was  here  with  Mr.  Ferrers  in  the  spring.  She  has 
not  entered  the  hotel  since." 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  said  Sheringham,  and  he  went 
aside  with  his  friend  and  they  consulted  together. 


i68          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  She  probably  went  back  to  London  by  the  night 
train,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "Can't  you  wire?" 

"  Did  she  tell  you  where  she  meant  to  stay  in  Lon- 
don?" 

"  No." 

"Then  how  can  I  wire?  I'll  run  over  and  see  for 
myself,  and  if  I  don't  find  her  I'll  wire  to  you  to- 
morrow morning  and  then  you " 

"  But  how  can  you  look  for  her  at  large  in  London  ?  " 

"  It  won't  be  quite  at  large.  I  know  with  whom  she 
would  communicate,  and  there  might  be  a  letter  waiting 
for  me." 

"  I  feel  sure  she  is  in  London,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  So  should  I  if  Varasdin  was  in  the  Avenue  Er- 
nani,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham.  "  Have  you  anything 
on  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all." 

"  Then  wait  for  my  telegram.  I  may  want  you  to 
go  straight  to  the  police." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          169 


XVIII 

AT  half-past  seven  next  morning  Sheringham  knocked 
at  Mrs.  Hunter's  door  and  explained  to  the  astonished 
and  inquisitive  Ginger  that  he  desired  to  see  the  cook. 
Ginger  could  not  understand  it,  but  he  understood  a 
little  present  of  five  shillings,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
Sheringham  was  shut  into  the  dining-room  with  Ama- 
bel's friend.  Mrs.  Pugsley  had  never  seen  Mr.  Sher- 
ingham before,  but  she  knew  all  about  him.  "  'Im  as 
Miss  'Unter  is  after,"  they  called  him  below  stairs. 
"  A  very  pleasant  gentleman  when  he  is  pleasant,"  the 
cook  thought  to  herself  as  she  took  his  measure;  and 
he  at  once  liked  her  sedate  manner  and  capable,  good- 
humoured  face.  But  what  she  had  to  tell  him  only 
added  to  his  growing  uneasiness.  She  had  not  heard 
from  Amabel  for  a  month;  she  knew  nothing  of  her 
coming  to  England.  On  the  contrary,  in  her  last  letter 
Miss  Ferrers  had  said  she  must  stay  in  Paris  because 
her  uncle  would  expect  to  find  her  there. 

"  Do  you  think  if  she  was  in  London  she  would 
have  let  you  know?"  asked  Sheringham. 

"  I  feel  sure  she  would,  sir,"  said  the  cook.  "  In 
fact,  it  was  as  good  as  settled.  She  was  to  let  me 
know  before  she  came  and  I  was  to  live  with  her 
either  as  cook  or  confidential  maid,  and  I  said  I  hoped 


170         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

it  would  be  cook,  because  I  understand  that  work 
and  don't  like  the  sound  of  the  other.  But  I  agreed 
to  go,  sir,  the  moment  I  'card,  and  George,  Vs  mad 
to  go  too.  Miss  Ferrers  is  a  young  lady  you're  very 
fond  of  when  you  know  her." 

"  Yes,  I've  noticed  that,"  said  Sheringham ;  and  he 
took  up  his  hat.  Then  he  seemed  to  change  his  mind, 
and  put  it  down  again. 

"  Did  you  expect  to  find  Miss  Ferrers  in  London, 
sir  ?  "  asked  the  cook. 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  am  very  anxious  about  her,  now 
that  I  know  she  is  not  here.  I  suppose  you  feel 
quite  sure  you  would  have  heard  from  her?  You 
don't  think  she  can  be  staying  at  some  hotel  by  her- 
self?" 

"  I  wouldn't  reckon  on  it  if  I  was  you,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Pugsley,  anxious  herself  now.  "  It's  not  like 
Miss  Ferrers  to  say  she'd  send  for  me,  and  then  come 
and  never  let  me  know." 

"  Look  here !  "  said  Sheringham,  "  if  Miss  Ferrers 
wanted  you  in  a  hurry  over  in  Paris,  would  you 
come  ?  " 

The  cook  pondered  a  little  over  her  reply,  before 
she  gave  it. 

"  I  might,"  she  said  in  the  end ;  "  I  have  a  sister 
who  obliges." 

"What?"  said  Sheringham. 

"  My  sister  goes  out  obliging,  sir.  She  prefers  it. 
If  I  went  off  in  a  hurry,  I'd  ask  her  to  do  for  Mrs. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          171 

'Unter  till  she  suits  herself.  Where  do  you  suppose 
Miss  Ferrers  to  be  at  present,  sir?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew." 

"Isn't  she  with  friends?" 

"  Who  are  her  friends  ?  Her  uncle  in  Mexico,  and 
you  here,  and  another  man  and  me  in  Paris.  Now, 
none  of  us  know  where  she  is." 

"  But  she  is  living  with  a  foreign  lady  and  gentle- 
man she  said." 

"  She  is  not  with  them.  The  trouble  is  that  she 
had  something  of  great  value  in  her  possession." 

"  You  never  know  what  them  foreigners  will  be 
up  to,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley ;  "  though,  to  be  sure,  we 
ain't  all  fit  for  'eaven  in  London  either.  Would  you 
telegraft  to  me,  sir?  My  mind  will  go  working  round 
'orror  on  'orror  now  till  I  hear  Miss  Ferrers  is  safe. 
And  I'll  come  directly  if  you  want  me,  though  foreign 
travel  and  foreign  ways  is  not  what  I've  been  used 
to." 

"  Bring  George  to  take  care  of  you,"  suggested  Mr. 
Sheringham. 

"  Rather  'ard  on  Mrs.  'Unter,  perhaps,"  said  the 
cook,  and  then  her  voice  changed  to  one  of  extreme 
severity.  "  Not  that  George  would  be  missed  any- 
where; 'e's  that  prying  and  mischievous,"  she  pro- 
claimed. 

"  If  you  please,  Mrs.  Pugsley,  can  I  lay  breakfast?  " 
said  George  at  the  open  door;  and  Sheringham  put 
two  five-pound  notes  into  the  cook's  hands  for  her 


i;2         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

expenses  in  case  he  sent  for  her,  and  was  in  his 
hansom  again,  and  on  his  way  to  his  office,  before 
Ginger  had  asked  his  first  question,  or  had  his  ears 
boxed  in  reply. 

Sheringham  had  managed  to  communicate  with  his 
head  clerk,  and  found  that,  early  as  it  was,  he  had 
arrived  at  the  office  and  had  been  busy  at  the  tele- 
phone, according  to  his  chief's  instructions.  He  had 
not  been  able  to  hear  of  Miss  Ferrers  at  any  of  the 
large  London  hotels ;  and  no  letter  from  her  awaited 
Sheringham.  At  nine  o'clock  he  left  for  Paris  again. 
Travelling  hard  made  little  mark  on  his  strong 
physique,  but  his  anxiety  grew  more  acute  as  he 
reached  his  journey's  end.  He  had  wired  to  Mr. 
Newby  and  hoped  to  see  him  at  the  Nord,  and  was 
disappointed.  He  drove  first  to  the  young  gentle- 
man's hotel,  and  heard  that  he  had  been  out  all  day 
and  that  no  one  knew  when  he  would  return ;  he  drove 
to  his  own  hotel,  and  neither  letters  nor  callers  had 
come  for  him.  Then  he  went  out  to  the  Avenue 
Ernani,  and  was  admitted,  and  found  Mme.  Varas- 
din  sitting  by  herself  again,  still  wearing  her  quiet 
cloth  gown,  and  still  with  a  manner  that  was  on 
guard. 

When  Mr.  Sheringham  was  shown  in,  she  sprang 
to  her  feet,  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  saw  first  alarm  and 
then  relief  in  her  face. 

"  Miss  Ferrers  is  not  in  London,"  he  said,  "  I  do 
not  know  where  she  is." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          173 

She  sat  down  again,  and  passed  a  handkerchief  over 
her  eyes,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  she  had  no  tears 
to  wipe  away,  but,  perhaps,  an  involuntary  thrill  of 
satisfaction. 

"  I,  too,  have  discovered  nothing,"  she  said.  "  I  sit 
here  with  my  sorrow  —  and  the  days  do  not  come 
to  an  end." 

"  We  must  see  whether  the  police  can  help  us,"  said 
Sheringham. 

"  They  are  such  bunglers  and  so  meddlesome.  The 
first  thing  they  will  do  will  be  to  proclaim  to  all 
Paris  that  my  husband  has  forsaken  me.  That  makes 
it  impossible  for  him  to  return.  Besides,  such  pub- 
licity would  be  most  injurious  to  Miss  Ferrers." 

"  You  are  singularly  forgiving.  I  should  not  have 
expected  you  to  consider  Miss  Ferrers  —  if  you  believe 
your  own  story." 

"  Can  you  think  of  a  more  likely  one?"  said  Mme. 
Varasdin. 

"  I  imagine  that  the  police  will  —  when  they  hear 
that  the  girl  had  fifty  thousand  pounds  worth  of 
shares  in  her  possession." 

The  lady  blinked,  and  a  moment  of  tense  silence 
gave  emphasis  to  Mr.  Sheringham's  reply.  He  had 
thrown  down  the  glove,  and  his  challenge  contained 
a  suggestion  she  could  not  pass  by. 

"  Then  for  once  Hyacinth  has  been  clever,"  she 
said,  deciding  neither  to  resent  nor  deny  the  imputa- 
tion, but  to  fit  it  to  her  purpose.  "  I  am  afraid,  how- 


174         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

ever,  that  if  he  has  any  money  he  will  not  come  back 
to  me.  I  wish  I  knew  where  he  was." 

"  Have  you  taken  a  single  step  to  find  out  ?  " 

"  The  world  is  large,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin.  "  Where 
should  I  begin  ?  " 

"  He  may  be  in  Paris  still." 

"  They  may  be  anywhere." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Sheringham,  getting  up,  "  my 
business  is  to  find  Miss  Ferrers." 

"  In  what  way  is  it  your  business,  if  my  story  is 
true?" 

"  You  are  speaking  of  my  future  wife." 

"  Then  it  is  you  who  will  be  singularly  forgiving," 
said  Mme.  Varasdin. 

There  was  no  longer  any  show  of  cordiality  between 
them.  The  man  was  angry  and  hostile,  and  the  woman 
was  malevolent  and  afraid.  Her  glances  had  failed 
to  conciliate  him  or  her  plight  to  touch  him.  He  took 
no  pains  to  hide  his  doubts  of  her;  he  was  not  held 
in  check  for  a  moment  by  her  appreciation  of  his  quali- 
ties, an  appreciation  she  had  done  her  best  to  convey 
whenever  they  met.  He  was  a  man  she  would  have 
followed  anywhere,  and  he  had  no  eyes  for  her.  From 
the  first  she  had  coveted  his  favour,  and  from  the  first 
she  had  failed  to  win  it.  He  stood  here  as  her  enemy, 
and  she  feared  him,  would  have  struck  him  dead  if  she 
could,  would  have  led  him  captive  if  she  had  known 
how. 

"  We  are  companions  in  misfortune,"  she  said,  with 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          175 

a  sigh.  "  Come  and  see  me  again  to-morrow.  I  may 
have  news." 

Before  Sheringham  could  reply  the  salon  door  was 
thrown  open  by  the  new  maid,  and  Mr.  Newby  walked 
in.  That  he  brought  bad  news  was  plain  to  both  the 
people  he  greeted,  and  they  waited  with  alarm  for  him 
to  speak.  He  turned  first  to  the  man. 

"  I  got  your  wire  this  morning,"  he  said.  "  I  went 
straight  to  the  police.  They've  been  awfully  decent, 
and  we've  found  out  things.  Miss  Ferrers  is  alive." 

"  Good  God,  I  hope  so !  "  said  Sheringham.  "  Where 
is  she?" 

"  At  the  Laborisiere.  She  has  concussion  of  the 
brain  and  is  still  unconscious.  But  they  say  now  she 
will  recover." 

"What  happened  to  her?" 

"  A  motor  car  knocked  her  down  somewhere  in 
Montmartre.  How  she  got  so  far  from  the  Ritz  no  one 
knows  yet.  She  was  alone ...  it  happened  about  an 
hour  after  she  left  the  restaurant. .  .and " 

Mr.  Newby  hesitated,  and  both  men  looked  at  Mme. 
Varasdin.  Her  face  was  grey  and  shrunken  now,  and 
she  stared  beyond  them  with  horror  in  her  fixed,  ex- 
pectant eyes. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Sheringham. 

"  Her  bag  and  purse  were  stolen.  Of  course,  directly 
the  accident  happened  a  crowd  gathered." 

"  But  what  had  become  of  Monsieur  Varasdin  ?  " 
said  Sheringham.  "Why  was  she  alone?" 


176          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  Poor  Varasdin,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

Mme.  Varasdin  did  not  speak,  and  Sheringham,  who 
was  watching  her,  saw  that  she  could  not.  He  saw 
the  twitch  in  her  throat,  and  the  waiting  stillness  of 
her  body,  and  the  despair  of  a  creature  at  bay  in  her 
eyes. 

"Have  you  found  Monsieur  Varasdin  too?"  said 
Sheringham. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  in  a  pained  voice. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  He  is  dead.  I  have  just  seen  him  —  at  the 
Morgue." 

A  low,  choking  groan  from  Mme.  Varasdin  checked 
the  young  man,  and  he  looked  at  her  helplessly.  She 
was  nearer  complete  collapse  of  mind  and  body  than 
she  had  been  at  any  moment  during  the  last  forty-eight 
hours.  In  so  short  a  time  she  would  have  been  safe, 
safe  even  if  Amabel  had  recovered  and  proclaimed  the 
theft  of  the  shares.  She  could  have  persuaded  the 
world  that  her  husband  had  absconded  with  them,  and 
let  the  police  lead  a  merry  dance  in  search  of  him.  Her 
success  had  hung  on  the  burial  of  her  husband  as  a 
nameless  suicide,  and  if  Sheringham  had  stayed  away 
a  fortnight  as  he  said  he  would,  if  Mr.  Newby  had  not 
been  asked  by  Sheringham  to  pry  and  meddle,  her 
position  would  have  been  secure.  But  the  identifica- 
tion of  Hyacinth  at  the  Morgue  imperilled  everything. 
There  would  be  an  inquiry.  The  cabman  would  come 
forward  with  his  story;  who  could  tell  what  the  con- 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          177 

cierge  had  seen;  and  there  was  the  doctor  who  had 
prescribed  the  morphia  and  knew  it  to  be  in  her  pos- 
session. It  might  never  be  proved  that  she  adminis- 
tered it ;  she  might  face  an  inquiry  and  come  away  scot 
free.  But  the  shock  of  the  news  unnerved  her,  and  to 
sit  there  facing  those  two  men,  one  so  obtuse  and  one 
so  hostile,  was  more  than  she  could  endure.  She  fell 
back  with  hysterical  cries,  compound  of  tears  and 
laughter,  pitiful  to  hear. 

"I  say  —  where's  some  brandy?"  said  Mr.  Newby. 
He  bolted  into  the  dining-room  and  returned  with  a 
decanter  and  a  liqueur  glass.  He  poured  out  the 
brandy  and  Mme.  Varasdin  drank  it,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes she  recovered  her  self-control. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  Morgue,"  she  said  to  Mr. 
Newby.  "  I  must  see  him." 

"  The  police  will  be  here  directly,  you  know,"  said 
Mr.  Newby.  "  I  gave  them  your  name  and  address. 
They'll  tell  you  if  it's  necessary.  I  should  wait  if  I 
were  you." 

"  I  cannot  wait,"  said  Madame  Varasdin.  "  I  must 
see  my  unhappy  husband.  I  had  always  warned  him 
that  this  would  happen.  He  began  years  ago... be- 
gan with  small  doses  to  relieve  pain.  I  blame  myself 
for  leaving  him  that  night.  You  will  remember  that 
we  all  observed  he  looked  strange." 

As  Madame  Varasdin  talked  she  was  conscious  that 
Mr.  Sheringham  was  following  what  she  said  with 
a  close,  surprised  attention  that  she  did  not  like.  She 


178          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

stopped,  but  he  did  not  speak;  she  got  up,  and  he 
made  no  motion  to  arrest  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  him  at  once,"  she  said  to  Mr. 
Newby ;  "  but  I  can  go  alone." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Newby,  "  I  will  come 
with  you  " ;  and  he  sat  down  to  wait  while  she  put  on 
her  outdoor  things.  Sheringham  waited  too. 

"  I  want  to  know  more  about  Miss  Ferrers,"  he  said. 
"Is  she  much  hurt?  Did  you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  saw  one  of  the  doctors.  It's  all 
right,  old  man.  They  say  she'll  pull  through  now, 
and  be  as  lively  as  ever." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  I  can't  explain,"  said  Sher- 
ingham. "  Why  was  she  by  herself  ?  Who  stole  her 
bag  and  her  purse  with  those  shares  in  it?  And  there 
is  another  thing " 

"What?" 

Sheringham  did  not  seem  inclined  to  say.  He  walked 
about  the  room,  and  Mr.  Newby  stared  out  of  the 
window,  and  with  both  men  the  time  passed  slowly. 
They  grew  impatient  when  twenty  minutes  had  been 
wasted  so,  and  still  the  lady  did  not  come. 

"  Madame  Varasdin  is  a  long  time  putting  on  a  hat," 
said  Mr.  Newby  at  last.  "  Perhaps  she  is  ill  again, 
poor  thing." 

"  Ring  and  ask,"  suggested  Sheringham. 

The  new  maid  appeared,  and  was  told  that  her  mis- 
tress had  had  bad  news  of  monsieur,  and  that  she  was 
not  well  in  consequence.  The  gentlemen  would  be  glad 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          179 

if  the  girl  would  ask  madame  if  she  still  wished  to  go 
out  with  them.  The  girl  went  and  returned  at  once. 

"  Madame  is  not  in  her  room,"  she  reported. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  in  some  other  room,"  said  Mr. 
Newby. 

The  girl  went  off  again  and  came  back  again,  and 
had  the  same  tale  to  tell.  Madame  was  nowhere  on 
the  flat. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Has  she  taken  offence  ?  "  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  Has 
she  gone  to  the  Morgue  by  herself?  " 

"  I  heard  some  one  go  softly  into  the  hall,"  said  the 
maid.  "  The  front  door  stands  open  still.  Evidently 
madame  did  not  wish  to  attract  attention." 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  the  girl,  and  the  men  saw 
she  had  something  more  to  communicate. 

"  Well !  "  they  said. 

"  Madame's  travelling-bag . . .  the  locked  one . . .  has 
gone  from  the  wardrobe.  Madame  has  perhaps  started 
on  a  journey." 

Sheringham  said  something  vague,  and  let  the  girl 
go.  Then  he  turned  to  Mr.  Newby. 

"  She's  bolted,"  he  said ;  "  she  won't  go  near  the 
Morgue.  That  was  a  blind.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  is  in  that  travelling-bag.  And  now  I'll  tell  you 
the  other  thing  that  has  been  going  round  in  my  head. 
What  did  Varasdin  die  of?" 

"  Morphia  poisoning." 


i8o          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  She  knew  it.  How  did  she  know  it  ?  The  manner 
of  his  death  was  not  mentioned  by  you.  Most  people 
who  lie  at  the  Morgue  have  been  drowned.  She  spoke 
of  doses.  There  has  been  foul  play,  I  tell  you,  and 
she  is  in  it.  And  she  has  those  shares." 

"  Good  God !  "  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  What  shall  we 
do  next?  The  police 

"  I'm  not  going  to  wait  for  the  police,"  said  Sher- 
ingham. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          181 


XIX 

"  I  THINK  I  shall  go  to  the  Morgue,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 
"  You  may  be  on  the  wrong  tack,  and,  anyhow,  I  don't 
see  where  else  there  is  to  go." 

Sheringham  hardly  heard  what  his  friend  said.  His 
eyes  were  absent,  his  mind  was  at  work ;  and  when  he 
stirred,  it  was  to  ask  for  a  railway  book.  The  two 
men  found  one  in  the  dining-room,  and  it  opened  with 
tell-tale  ease  at  the  trains  travelling  towards  Vienna 
from  the  Gare  de  1'Est.  It  was  to  follow  one  trail  out 
of  many,  but  to  follow  it  hot,  and  Sheringham  decided 
to  try  it. 

"  Yes,  go  to  the  Morgue/'  he  said  to  Mr.  Newby ; 
"  if  you  find  no  one  there,  perhaps  the  police  will  help 
you  again." 

The  next  moment  he  was  out  of  the  room,  and  out 
of  the  flat.  As  he  emerged  from  the  house  he  held  up 
a  twenty-franc  piece  to  a  passing  cab,  and  told  the 
driver  on  what  condition  he  should  have  it.  The  man 
answered  to  the  bribe,  and  by  favour  of  fortune,  landed 
his  fare  undamaged  at  the  railway  station  five  minutes 
before  the  Viennese  express  was  timed  to  start.  Sher- 
ingham went  straight  to  the  booking-office,  and  asked 
for  a  ticket  to  Nancy.  He  hoped  he  would  not  want 
it,  but  he  meant  to  take  a  journey,  if  that  was  the  only 


182          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

way.  At  Nancy  there  was  a  halt  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  and  he  could  book  on  there  if  necessary. 

When  he  reached  the  departure  platform,  most 
people  who  were  travelling  in  that  train  were  either 
in  their  seats  or  standing  beside  the  carriages  they  had 
chosen.  A  careful  glance  along  the  thin  scattered 
groups  satisfied  him  that  he  knew  no  one  there.  Then 
he  got  into  the  train,  and  walked  right  to  the  end  of 
it  and  back  again,  and  all  the  while  he  kept  his  eyes 
and  ears  open  for  new  arrivals.  He  had  entered  the 
first  compartment  of  the  hindmost  carriage,  and  had 
just  decided  that  he  was  a  fool  for  his  pains,  when  a 
clanging  bell,  a  whistle,  and  a  scurry  on  the  platform, 
convinced  him  that  he  must  instantly  jump  out  or  be 
carried  some  way  from  Paris.  He  cast  a  cursory  glance 
into  the  end  compartments,  found  that  they  were  empty, 
and  was  making  for  the  door,  when  he  saw  through  the 
window  the  hurrying  figure  of  a  tall,  thickly  veiled 
lady  coming  towards  the  train.  He  thought  he  knew 
her  walk,  and  when  she  spoke  to  the  conductor  he 
was  sure  he  knew  her  voice.  As  the  train  moved 
off  she  settled  herself  in  the  compartment  adjoining 
his,  and  he  heard  her  say  that  she  was  going  to 
Vienna. 

Sheringham  debated  with  himself  whether  he  should 
wait,  or  act  at  once.  He  wanted  to  get  back  to  London. 
He  knew  that  his  head  clerk  was  raging  at  the  chief's 
not  to  be  understood  or  forgiven  defection  in  the  very 
midst  of  a  mighty  boom  in  his  own  market.  He  wanted 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          183 

also  to  get  back  to  Paris  and  Amabel,  and  watch,  hour 
by  hour,  for  Amabel's  recovery.  Nothing  drew  him 
to  Vienna  except  an  outraged  sense  of  justice,  but  in 
a  man  of  his  temperament  that  sense  prevails.  His 
affairs,  which  were  intricate  and  of  consequence,  and 
his  anxiety  about  the  girl  he  loved,  gave  way  for  the 
time  to  his  conviction  that  there  was  a  wrong  to  set 
right,  and  that  it  fell  to  him  to  do  it.  For  his  purpose 
an  interview  without  witnesses  was,  of  course,  a  prime 
necessity;  and  the  train  had  hardly  travelled  a  mile 
when  a  dissatisfied  passenger  spoilt  his  plan  for  the 
time  being.  A  stout,  voluble  woman  came  stumping 
along  the  corridor  in  the  wake  of  the  conductor,  com- 
plaining that  she  had  caught  her  death  through  an 
Englishman  who  would  open  a  window,  although  she 
had  told  him  that  the  night  air  invariably  made  people 
blind.  She  put  her  head  into  Sheringham's  compart- 
ment, when  she  saw  that  here,  too,  sat  one  of  the  crazy, 
draught-loving  race.  Finally  she  subsided  next  door. 
So  Sheringham  waited,  got  his  dinner  between  two 
stations,  and  was  back  at  his  post  before  they  reached 
Chalons.  He  hoped  that  the  stout  lady  might  descend 
at  Chalons,  and  that  he  might  be  saved  from  travelling 
further  than  Bar  le  Due,  but  she  disappointed  him. 
Bar  le  Due  was  her  destination.  From  that  hour,  the 
train  had  a  clear  run  to  Nancy  of  more  than  an  hour, 
and  Sheringham  said  to  himself  that  he  would  enter 
on  his  return  journey  there,  having  done  what  he  came 
out  to  do.  He  had  been  travelling,  without  much  break 


184          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

or  sleep,  for  thirty-six  hours,  but  he  had  never  felt 
more  wide-awake.  The  thought  of  Amabel  steeled  his 
nerves,  and  fed  his  anger,  for  he  believed  that  she  had 
been  robbed  and  deserted,  and  that  the  woman  next 
door  had  a  hand  in  it.  He  still  waited  a  little.  The 
train  sped  through  the  darkness,  the  wheels  rolled,  mile 
after  mile,  with  a  monotonous  rhythm,  and  inside  the 
carriages  the  hush  of  night  began  to  replace  the  clat- 
ter and  movement  of  the  earlier  hours.  They  were 
not  twenty  minutes  from  Nancy  when  he  left  his  seat, 
opened  the  door  of  the  next  compartment,  and  closed 
it  behind  him,  before  the  woman,  half  asleep  in  the 
corner,  roused  and  recognised  him.  The  noise  of  the 
opening  door  had  not  terrified  her.  She  expected, 
when  she  looked  up,  to  see  the  conductor.  To  see 
Sheringham  instead,  frightened  her  out  of  her  self- 
control.  She  gave  a  start,  and  a  betraying  cry  of  sur- 
prise, and  her  right  hand,  which  was  ungloved,  crept 
towards  something  that  lay  hidden  between  her  body 
and  the  cushioned  side  of  the  carriage.  He  was  un- 
armed, and  he  guessed  at  once  that  she  was  not. 

"  I  want  to  see  both  your  hands,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  move,  and  through  her  veil  he  could  see 
the  glitter  of  her  narrow  eyes.  She  looked  as  cold  and 
wicked  as  a  snake  and  he  remembered  Amabel,  and  his 
anger  burned  within  him. 

"  You  can't  shoot  here,  you  know,"  he  continued. 
"You  would  be  arrested  at  once." 

"  But  you  would  be  out  of  my  way." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          185 

"  I  should  do  you  more  harm  dead  than  I  mean  to 
do  you  alive.  You  had  better  listen  to  my  terms." 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  To  begin  with,  I  want  to  see  your  hands." 

With  a  swiftness  for  which  he  was  not  prepared 
Mme.  Varasdin  rose  and  faced  him,  and  the  nozzle  of 
the  revolver  in  her  steady  hand  pointed  at  his  heart. 

"  If  you  don't  go  away  at  once  I'll  shoot  you,"  she 
said.  "  I'll  find  some  story  to  persuade  a  French  jury. 
I  am  a  woman.  You  are  an  Englishman.  I  am  not 
afraid.  It  is  your  life  that  hangs  on  a  thread." 

But  Mme.  Varasdin  did  not  understand  the  hot 
imperious  temper  of  the  man  with  whom  she  had  to 
deal  in  this  hour.  Like  most  foreigners  she  thought 
that  because  an  Englishman  keeps  a  rein  on  his  pas- 
sions he  has  no  passions  to  rouse,  and  cannot  be  moved 
to  any  extremity  of  anger.  As  she  threatened  Shering- 
ham  his  face  went  white,  but  it  was  the  pallor  of  a 
fiercer  wrath  and  a  harder  determination  than  her  own. 
She  looked  to  see  him  flinch  and  perhaps  to  turn  ig- 
nobly at  her  command ;  and  before  she  had  time  to 
touch  the  trigger,  he  swooped  like  a  hawk  towards  her 
and  caught  both  her  hands.  Without  hurry  and  without 
violence  he  forced  her  fingers  from  the  point  of  danger 
and  the  revolver  from  her  grasp.  His  luck  was  with 
him.  Taken  by  surprise,  less  resolute  than  he,  and 
mindful  perhaps  of  her  precarious  position,  she  did 
not  struggle  much,  but  stared  at  him  with  a  sort  of 
sour  helplessness  as  he  turned  the  tables  on  her. 


186         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"If  you  have  a  knife  I  shall  take  it  from  you,"  he 
said.  "  You  had  better  sit  down."  He  released  her 
hands  and  she  sank  back  into  the  corner  of  the  carriage 
she  had  occupied. 

"  The  conductor  may  appear  at  any  moment,"  she 
said  sullenly. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  him,"  said  Sheringham. 

"  You  play  a  fine  part  —  to  bully  some  one  weaker 
than  yourself." 

"  I  warn  you  that  I  am  not  a  man  of  sentiment.  I 
believe  you  have  something  in  your  possession  to  which 
you  have  no  right.  I  believe  other  things  about  you 
too,  but  on  one  condition  I  consent  to  leave  them  out 
of  the  discussion :  in  short,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
to  let  you  go  free." 

"  What  is  your  condition  ?  " 

"  The  bonds  that  you  have  stolen.  The  thousand 
Eugenias." 

"Are  you  mad?     I  have  no  Eugenias." 

"  I  give  you  ten  minutes,"  said  Sheringham.  "  When 
the  train  stops  at  Nancy  the  Eugenias  will  be  given  up 
to  me,  or  I  shall  put  you  in  the  hands  of  the  police. 
I  shall  charge  you  with  the  murder  of  your  husband." 

The  woman  began  to  tremble  violently,  and  Sher- 
ingham began  to  hate  the  job  he  had  undertaken.  But 
its  unpleasantness  did  not  affect  his  resolve  to  see  it 
through. 

"  I  can  say  I  have  never  seen  you  before  and  that 
you  have  threatened  my  life,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          187 

"  If  I  raised  my  voice  the  guard  would  come  and  the 
revolver  would  be  found  in  your  possession." 

"  But  the  Eugenias  would  be  found  in  yours,"  said 
Sheringham  at  a  venture.  He  spoke  with  a  blunt- 
ness  that  took  the  woman  aback,  and  he  saw  her 
hand  go  up  to  the  bosom  of  her  dress  and  fall  to  her 
lap  again. 

"  Any  one  can  own  Eugenias,"  she  said. 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  said  Sheringham.  "  We  will  go 
to  the  police  together  and  face  inquiry.  I  trust  them  to 
find  out  when  and  where  you  bought  this  revolver. 
It  was  probably  on  your  way  to  the  station." 

"  I  wish  I  had  killed  you  with  it,"  said  Mme. 
Varasdin. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  man  still  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  carriage  door.  She  recognized  that  his 
fighting  spirit  was  more  than  a  match  for  her  own,  and 
that  neither  cajolery  nor  bluster  would  avail  her. 

"  You  have  no  proofs  against  me,"  she  said. 

"  The  Eugenias  will  be  found  on  you.  Miss  Ferrers 
will  tell  us  how  she  came  to  lose  them.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  your  husband  was  concerned  in  it.  We  shall  have 
to  trace  his  movements  from  the  moment  he  robbed 
Miss  Ferrers  to  the  moment  he  entered  the  cab,  dying 
of  morphia  administered  by  you." 

"  It  was  a  suicide." 

"  Then  how  did  you  know  it  ?  No  one  had  told  you. 
Mr.  Newby  said  he  had  seen  the  body  at  the  Morgue. 
Most  people  who  lie  at  the  Morgue  have  died  by 


188          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

drowning.  You  volunteered  in  our  hearing  that  this 
was  a  case  of  suicide  by  morphia." 

"  He  told  me  he  meant  to  do  it." 

"  Say  that  to  your  judges  —  when  the  stolen  bonds 
have  been  found  in  your  possession.  Explain  to  them 
why  you  did  not  attempt  to  identify  your  husband's 
body,  and  tried  to  put  me  off  with  that  preposterous 
story  of  his  elopement  with  Miss  Ferrers.  Really  you 
have  not  been  clever,  Madame  Varasdin." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Mme.  Varasdin,  "  if  it  had  not 
been  for  you  —  or  if  you  had  been  just  twelve  hours 
later —  How  could  I  foresee  that  you  would  be  med- 
dling in  what  is  none  of  your  business?  What  right 
have  you  to  interfere?  As  for  the  shares,  they  are  no 
more  yours  than  they  are  mine." 

"  But  you  will  give  them  up  to  me,"  said  Shering- 
ham. 

The  train  jogged  on  through  the  darkness,  and  pres- 
ently began  to  slacken  speed.  They  were  approaching 
Nancy. 

"  You  must  make  up  your  mind,"  he  said.  "  I  see 
the  lights  of  the  city.  I  am  going  to  act  the  mo- 
ment we  draw  up.  I  will  not  be  carried  on  any 
further." 

"  Even  if  I  had  Eugenias  it  would  be  no  proof,"  said 
Mme.  Varasdin,  speaking  with  some  violence.  "  How 
could  you  possibly  prove  that  they  were  stolen  from 
Miss  Ferrers  ?  " 

Sheringham  smiled  a  little,  and  he  spoke  with  the 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          189 

quiet  assurance  of  a  man  who  has  the  game  in  his 
hands. 

"  I  suspected  you  that  day  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes," 
he  said.  "  As  we  were  coming  home  Miss  Ferrers 
showed  me  the  certificate.  I  took  a  precaution.  I  en- 
tered the  number  in  a  note-book." 

That  was  the  last  turn  of  the  screw.  Mme.  Varas- 
din  knew  she  had  lost  the  game.  Yet  she  bargained 
as  she  drew  the  shares  from  beneath  her  cloak ;  and  she 
still  kept  them  in  her  hands,  as  if  to  give  them  up  was 
beyond  her  strength.  Her  face  was  white  and  wicked, 
and  when  she  spoke  she  snarled  so  that  her  voice 
sounded  in  Sheringham's  ears  like  the  voice  of  a 
trapped  beast  who  would  spring  at  your  throat  if  he 
could. 

"  Why  should  I  trust  you  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  will 
get  the  shares  and  then  hunt  me  down." 

"  To  bring  you  to  justice  won't  bring  the  poor  devil 
you  drugged  to  life  again,"  said  Sheringham. 

"  I  swear  I  am  innocent  of  that,"  she  cried. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Sheringham,  as  the  train  drew 
up.  "  Now !  which  is  it  to  be  ?  Will  you  go  on  to 
Vienna,  or  will  you  break  your  journey  here?" 

She  threw  the  paper  on  the  floor  at  his  feet,  and  he 
stooped  and  picked  it  up.  Then  he  lifted  his  hat 
gravely,  and  turned  to  go. 

"  Stay,"  she  said ;  and  he  waited,  wondering  what 
she  could  have  to  say. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you  have  done  a  fine  thing," 


190         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

she  went  on.  "  You  will  carry  those  shares  as  a  love- 
offering  to  your  bride ;  and  to  me  and  to  my  fate  you 
will  never  give  another  thought.  You  have  taken  from 
me  what  I  risked  life  and  took  life  to  obtain.  Oh  yes ! 
I  killed  my  husband.  I  was  glad  when  he  died.  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  drag  through  the  world  with 
a  fool  and  a  knave  chained  to  you?  I  was  free  by  my 
own  doing.  I  was  rich  by  my  own  hands,  and  you 
have  threatened  my  freedom  and  forced  my  fortune 
from  me.  And  you  do  not  need  the  money ;  neither  you 
nor  the  girl  you  love.  It  is  everything  to  me.  For 
mercy's  sake,  give  me  the  shares.  Give  them  to  me 
as  you  would  give  a  crust  to  a  starving  dog." 

"  No,"  said  Sheringham  resolutely.  "  They  are  not 
mine  to  give." 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  more  quickly  than  before 
from  the  carriage,  for  the  quarter  of  an  hour  had 
come  to  an  end,  and  the  train  was  already  in  motion. 
He  stepped  rather  hurriedly  on  to  the  platform,  and 
did  not  perceive,  in  his  hurry,  that  Mme.  Varasdin 
had  crept  after  him.  The  guard  had  jumped  into  his 
van,  Sheringham  tried  to  shut  the  door  of  the  carriage, 
a  loud-voiced  porter  ordered  him  back.  By  this  time 
he  saw  Mme.  Varasdin  close  to  the  open  window,  and 
while  he  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  she  leant  out 
of  it,  and  spoke  again. 

"  Keep  that  and  the  shares  too,  then,"  she  said,  and, 
with  her  hand  covered  by  the  voluminous  sleeve  of  her 
cloak,  she  drove  a  knife  into  his  shoulder.  For  a  mo- 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          191 

ment  he  did  not  realise  what  had  happened,  and  at 
first  he  felt  no  pain.  The  rear-light  was  travelling  far 
down  the  line,  and  the  officials  on  the  platform  were 
dispersing  in  various  directions,  when  one  of  them 
observed  that  the  tall  gentleman  who  had  left  the  train 
as  it  moved  out  of  the  station,  stood  very  still,  and  then 
staggered  and  fell.  The  man  ran  to  his  assistance. 

"  Is  Monsieur  ill  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sheringham,  and  then  he  fainted. 


J92          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 


XX 


!A  WEEK  later  a  cab  stopped  in  front  of  the  Hotel  Ritz, 
and  Mrs.  Pugsley,  attended  by  Ginger,  got  out  of  it. 
Mrs.  Pugsley  wore  a  waterproof  cloak  and  a  bonnet 
trimmed  high  on  the  crown,  and  tied  under  the  chin. 
She  carried  an  old  leather  bag,  and  she  had  brought 
with  her  a  tin  trunk  and  a  portmanteau  for  Ginger. 
The  hotel  porter  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  Ginger  paid 
the  cabman  with  an  English  half-crown,  and  was  danc- 
ing with  delight  at  the  man's  gesticulations. 

"  It's  all  you'll  get,  Froggy,"  he  said. 

"  We  want  Miss  Ferrers,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley  to 
the  porter. 

"  Hark  at  the  motor  cars,"  said  Ginger,  at  her 
elbow ;  "  do  you  suppose  there's  a  race  on  ?  And 
'ow  quick  the  Mounseers  do  talk.  I  can't  make  out 
a  word  they  say.  That  chap  isn't  going  to  take  my 
'arf  -  crown.  Look  at  'im  waving  'is  'ands  at  me. 
What'll  we  do?" 

"  We  want  Miss  Ferrers,"  said  the  cook  again,  and 
again  the  porter  signed  to  her  to  enter  the  hotel.  He 
thought  there  was  some  mistake,  and  that  she  would 
soon  emerge  again  and  be  driven  to  quarters  where 
people  who  travel  with  tin  trunks  are  welcome. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Ginger.  "  'E  means  we're  to  ask 
inside." 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          193 

He  led  the  way.  The  journey,  short  as  it  was,  had 
brought  about  a  state  of  things  that  Mrs.  Pugsley 
hoped  would  not  last  much  longer.  Every  step  in  their 
pilgrimage  seemed  to  leave  her  more  dependent  on  the 
boy's  counsel,  and  less  capable  of  dealing  with  his  im- 
pudence. He  went  ahead  of  her  now,  and  walked  up 
to  the  clerk's  desk  and  asked  for  Miss  Ferrers. 

"  Mr.  Ferrers,"  corrected  the  clerk. 

"  Oh !  if  you  like,"  said  Ginger ;  "  we  say  Miss  when 
it's  a  young  lady.  Will  you  please  say  Mrs.  Pugsley 
is  'ere  and  George.  Has  Mr.  Sherringham  arrived 
yet?" 

"  P'raps  'e'll  call  'im  Miss,"  he  whispered  to  the 
cook. 

The  clerk  looked  more  doubtful  than  the  porter  had 
done,  but  at  that  hour  the  usual  waiting-room  was 
empty,  and  he  took  the  new  arrivals  there.  They 
looked  about  them  with  great  interest,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  a  middle-aged  gentleman  came  in  to  them. 

"  Did  you  inquire  for  Mr.  Ferrers  ?  "  he  said. 

"  For  Miss  Ferrers,"  said  the  cook,  "  for  Miss 
Amabel  Ferrers." 

"  Do  you  know  where  my  niece  is,  then  ?  "  said  the 
gentleman,  looking  very  much  surprised. 

"  I  think  she  must  be  in  a  hospital,  sir." 

"In  a  hospital?    Amabel?    Why?" 

"  Mr.  Sheringham  says  so.  I  had  a  long  telegraft 
'from  him  day  before  yesterday." 

"What  Mr.  Sheringham  is  that?" 


194         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  A  Mr.  James  Sheringham,  sir.  Isn't  he  on  the 
Stock  Exchange,  George  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  George.  "  And  I've  'card  Mr. 
'Unter  allude  to  him  as  Mexican  Jem." 

"  But  Mr.  Sheringham  does  not  know  my  niece." 

"  Oh  yes !  he  does,  sir,"  said  Ginger.  "  I  see  'im 
when  'e  upset  the  custard  over  her  at  Mrs.  'Unter's 
party." 

A  light  seemed  gradually  to  break  upon  the  puzzled 
gentleman,  and  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Pugsley. 

"  Are  you  the  cook  my  niece  was  so  fond  of  when 
she  lived  with  Mrs.  Hunter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was  Mrs.  Hunter's  cook  —  until  yesterday,"  said 
Mrs.  Pugsley.  "  Then  I  got  the  telegraft  from  Mr. 
Sheringham,  which  I'll  show  you  at  once,  sir." 

She  took  the  telegram  from  her  bag,  and  Mr.  Fer- 
rers read  it. 

"  Miss  Ferrers  arrives  at  Hotel  Ritz,  Paris,  to-mor- 
row. Recovering  from  serious  illness.  Can  you  be 
there  to  receive  her?  Take  George.  All  expenses 
paid.  Shall  arrive  Paris  soon  after  you." 

"  I  should  say,  sir,"  explained  Mrs.  Pugsley  —  "I 
should  say  that  Mr.  Sheringham  had  been  to  see  me 
a  week  previous,  and  had  told  me  I  might  be  wanted." 

"  But  why  does  he  arrange  things  for  my  niece  ? 
And  why  has  she  been  in  a  hospital?  He  explains 
nothing." 

"  That  is  what  I  found  when  I  tried  to  answer  Mrs. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          195 

'Unter's  questions,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley.  "  'Owever, 
we've  come.  My  sister's  obliging  Mrs.  'Unter,  and 
'er  son,  as  is  a  well-beyaved  boy  as  ever  lived,  'as 
George's  place.  She  won't  find  as  much  coal  on  the 
stairs  as  usual,  I  don't  think." 

Mr.  Ferrers  said  he  had  been  very  anxious  about 
Amabel.  He  had  telegraphed  from  New  York,  and 
expected  to  find  her  in  the  hotel  on  his  arrival;  but 
he  had  received  no  news  of  her,  and  the  hotel  people 
had  roused  his  alarm  by  telling  him  of  her  unex- 
plained absence  after  she  had  engaged  a  room.  He 
went  out  into  the  hall  now  to  make  some  further  in- 
quiries, and  found  the  booking-clerk  engaged  with  a 
young  gentleman  whose  face  he  thought  he  had  seen 
before. 

"  I  shall  return  with  the  lady  at  once,"  the  young 
gentleman  said,  and  he  brushed  against  Mr.  Ferrers 
as  he  turned  to  come  away.  It  was  Mr.  Newby,  and 
he  recognised  Amabel's  uncle  directly. 

"Well  I  am—"  he  cried.  "Won't  Miss  Ferrers 
be  jolly  glad  to  see  you  here !  " 

"You  too?"  said  Mr.  Ferrers.  "Is  every  one  ex- 
cept me  looking  after  Amabel  ?  " 

"  I'm  only  doing  it  by  proxy,  you  know,"  said  Mr. 
Newby.  "  Sheringham's  the  man.  But  as  he's  been 
laid  up  at  Nancy  —  I  say,  I've  got  to  find  some  one 
Sheringham  sent  for.  She's  a  cook  really,  but  she's 
going  to  take  care  of  Miss  Ferrers,  and  there's  a  boy 
too,  and  they  are  somewhere  loose  about  the  hotel." 


196         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  I've  seen  them,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers.  "  I'll  take  you 
to  them.  But  just  tell  me  what  has  been  the  matter 
with  my  niece  ?  " 

"  She  was  knocked  down  by  a  motor  car  and  nearly 
killed.  Concussion  of  the  brain  and  complications. 
She  looks  a  bit  off  colour  still.  You  must  prepare 
for  that." 

Mr.  Ferrers  was  shocked  to  hear  of  Amabel's  bad 
luck,  and  Mrs.  Pugsley  said  the  police  ought  to  know 
better  than  to  allow  such  things.  The  whole  party 
drove  to  the  hospital  to  fetch  Amabel,  and  the  two 
gentlemen  went  inside  and  saw  one  of  the  doctors. 
'Aey  were  told  that  the  girl  must  still  be  guarded 
from  all  fatigue  and  excitement,  and  that  it  would  be 
unwise  to  dwell  in  any  way  on  her  accident  or  the 
events  leading  up  to  it.  Mr.  Ferrers  thought  it  was 
hard  advice  to  follow,  but  when  he  saw  Amabel  he 
recognised  its  wisdom.  She  looked  white  and  weak 
still,  and  her  pleasure  in  seeing  him  again  and  then 
in  seeing  Mrs.  Pugsley  and  Ginger,  was  as  much  as 
she  could  bear.  Her  uncle  invited  Mr.  Newby  to 
lunch,  and  after  lunch  the  two  men  were  sitting  with 
Amabel  when  a  hotel  servant  opened  the  door  and 
Mr.  Sheringham  walked  into  the  room.  He  carried 
his  arm  in  a  sling  and  looked  pale,  but  not  as  pale  as 
Amabel.  He  went  straight  up  to  her,  and  Mr.  Ferrers 
watched  his  niece  and  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  my  niece  knew  you,"  he  said, 
when  Amabel  presented  Sheringham  to  him. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          197 

"  You  called  him  by  some  nickname  when  you  said 
he  was  banging  your  market,"  said  Amabel. 

Mr.  Ferrers  opened  his  eyes,  and  Mexican  Jem 
stroked  his  moustache  and  smiled. 

"  I  dropped  a  hundred  thousand  in  that  slump," 
Sheringham  said.  "  But,  of  course,  I  was  right  at 
the  time.  I  see  Eugenias  are  at  fifty." 

"  By  the  way,  Amabel,  I  gave  you  a  few,"  said  Mr. 
Ferrers.  "  Where  are  they  ?  I  suppose  that's  a  ques- 
tion I  may  ask  you  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  got  them,"  said  Amabel,  and  her  uncle 
saw  that  he  had  agitated  and  distressed  her.  "  I  have 
always  thought  that  M.  Varasdin  took  them  after  lie 
knocked  me  down." 

The  three  men  seemed  to  speak  at  the  same  moment 
and  to  come  a  little  nearer  to  her,  moved  by  horror 
and  surprise. 

"  If  any  one  of  you  had  been  there,"  she  said,  and 
she  shivered  at  the  memory  of  that  miserable  hour. 
She  saw  the  long,  dark,  lonely  street  again  —  she  felt 
the  stunning  blow. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  her  uncle  anxiously  —  "  never 
mind  the  Eugenias.  If  I  had  known  I  wouldn't  have 
asked  about  them." 

"  But  here  they  are,"  said  Sheringham,  who,  with 
his  right  arm  in  a  sling,  had  found  it  difficult  to  ex- 
tract the  certificate  from  his  coat. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  Then  you  were  on 
the  right  tack  after  all." 


198          THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  It's  as  plain  as  daylight.  Varasdin  stole  them 
from  Miss  Ferrers.  His  wife  stole  them  from  him 
when  she  had  drugged  him." 

"  But  how  did  you  get  them  out  of  her?  " 

"  I  charged  her  with  the  murder  of  her  husband." 

"Why  is  your  arm  in  a  sling?"  asked  Mr.  Ferrers. 

"  Oh,  she  had  a  dig  at  me  with  a  knife !  "  said  Sher- 
ingham.  "  The  Nancy  police  could  get  nothing  out 
of  me  for  forty-eight  hours,  so  she  got  clean  away. 
I  don't  suppose  they  will  ever  find  her." 

Mr.  Ferrers  said  at  this  point  that  he  had  a  great 
many  questions  to  ask,  and  he  took  the  two  men  into 
life  own  room  and  heard  all  they  could  tell  him  of 
what  had  happened.  None  of  them  doubted  that 
Mme.  Varasdin  had  poisoned  her  husband. 

"  It  was  not  suspected  here,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  He 
was  buried  as  a  suicide." 

"  If  she  is  ever  brought  to  book  for  it,  she  will  have 
herself  to  thank,"  said  Sheringham.  "  Of  course,  the 
police  inquired  into  her  attack  on  me.  I  had  to  give 
her  name.  I  said  as  little  as  I  could.  We  can't  bring 
Varasdin  to  life  again,  and  I  should  prefer  to  have 
done  with  her." 

"  I'm  glad  she  didn't  get  off  with  the  shares,"  said 
Mr.  Ferrers  admiringly  to  Mexican  Jem.  "  You  really 
have  been  a  first-rate  friend  to  Amabel." 

"  Well,  that's  only  natural,"  said  the  financier,  and 
there  and  then  he  explained  why. 

"  But  I  looked  forward  to  settling  down  in  New 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          199 

York  and  having  her  to  keep  house  for  me,"  said  Mr. 
Ferrers. 

"  I'll  ask  her  to  keep  house  for  both  of  us  in  Lon- 
don," said  Sheringham,  and  he  went  off  to  Amabel 
and  found  that  she  had  been  resting,  and  felt  the 
better  for  it. 

"  But  I  dream  of  it,"  she  said  nervously.  "  I  see 
the  long  dark  street  and  his  face.  The  motor  car 
comes  and  I  can't  escape.  He  is  dead.  I  hope  I  need 
never  see  her  again.  Suppose  she  went  to  New  York 
and  I  came  across  her  there  ?  " 

"  I  know  a  certain  way  of  avoiding  that,"  said  Sher- 
ingham ;  "  marry  me  and  live  in  London." 

"I  wonder  whether  Uncle  Michael  would  like  it?" 
said  Amabel,  when  her  lover  had  softened  the  bluntness 
of  his  proposal  by  explaining  at  some  length  and  in  the 
usual  way  how  ardently  he  desired  her  to  accept  him. 

"  We  will  invite  him  to  live  with  us,"  said  Shering- 
ham. "  To  tell  the  truth  I  have  done  it  already." 

"  Did  you  feel  so  sure  of  me  ?  "  said  Amabel  rather 
wistfully. 

"  Not  of  you  so  much  as  of  myself  from  the  first 
moment  I  saw  you.  And  when  a  man  sets  his 
heart " 

"  When  Mexican  Jem  sets  his  mind,  you  mean " 

"  But  I  did  feel  sure  of  you  too,"  said  Sheringham, 
"  I  felt  sure  from  the  moment  I  met  you  in  old  Gre- 
gorio's  ballroom.  You  may  deny  it  if  you  will,  but 
you  looked  delighted  to  see  me." 


200         THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS 

"  So  I  was,"  admitted  Amabel. 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  observed 
Mexican  Jem. 

But  they  found  a  great  deal  to  say  until  Mrs.  Pugs- 
ley  and  Ginger  came  into  the  room  to  bring  Amabel 
some  tea  made  with  the  help  of  an  English  tea-basket. 

"  Miss  Ferrers  and  I  are  going  to  be  married,"  said 
Sheringham  very  soon  to  Mrs.  Pugsley.  "  We  shall 
want  a  cook." 

"And  a  under-footman,"  said  Ginger. 

"  And  a  best  man,"  said  Sheringham  to  Mr.  Newby, 
who  appeared  with  Mr.  Ferrers  just  then. 

"  And  some  one  to  give  you  away,  my  dear,"  said 
Amabel's  uncle. 

"  Let  us  be  married  to-morrow,"  said  Mr.  Sher- 
ingham. 

"  I  have  no  clothes,"  said  Amabel. 

"  But  you  have  a  thousand  Eugenias  and  one  uncle," 
said  Mr.  Ferrers. 

"  And  you  have  two  trunks,"  said  Mr.  Newby.  "  I 
forgot  that.  I  explained  about  them  to  the  police, 
and  they  are  awaiting  your  instructions  at  the  Avenue 
Ernani." 

"  Shall  I  go  and  fetch  them,  sir  ?  "  said  Ginfer,  and 
he  was  allowed  to  do  so. 

"  Of  course,  it  can't  really  be  to-morrow,"  said 
Sheringham.  "  At  least  I  should  think  not.  As  Brit- 
ish subjects  abroad  there  would  be  formalities." 

"  Of  course  it  can't  be  to-morrow,"  said  Amabel. 


THE   THOUSAND   EUGENIAS          201 

"  How  can  you  have  a  wedding  without  a  wedding 
gown?" 

"  And  a  wedding  cake,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley. 

"  Are  there  no  gowns  and  cakes  in  Paris  ? "  said 
Sheringham. 

"  There  may  be  gowns,"  said  Amabel. 

"  But  no  cakes,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley.  "  I  have  often 
been  told  that  foreigners  get  married  without  them." 

"  I  must  really  go  back  to  London,"  said  the  bride- 
groom. "  I  don't  want  to  find  myself  bankrupt  on 
my  wedding  day." 

"  I  would  give  you  the  thousand  Eugenias,"  said 
the  bride. 

"You  shall  go  back  to  London  to-morrow,"  said 
Mr.  Ferrers.  "  The  doctor  shall  fix  the  date  of  our 
return,  the  milliners  shall  fix  the  date  of  the  wedding, 
and  you,  Mrs.  Pugsley,  shall  fix  the  height  of  the 
cake." 

"  I'm  glad  we're  going  back  to  London,"  said  Mrs. 
Pugsley.  "  I've  heard  a  deal  of  French  cooking  all  my 
life,  and  now  I've  tasted  it,  and  I  don't  deny  it  has 
points,  which  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  the  meat.  Of 
course,  they  can  cook.  With  old  cab-horse  for  beef, 
they'd  die  if  they  didn't." 

"  I  shall  go  back  to  London  too,"  said  Mr.  Newby. 
"  I  look  forward  to  a  grilled  steak  myself." 

"  Never  mind  milliners  and  doctors,"  said  Amabel. 
"  We'll  all  go  back  to-morrow." 

"  I  call  that  a  sensible  remark,"  said  Mexican  Jem. 


ANNE    AND    THE    ANARCHIST 


ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  clergyman's  widow 
who  lived  in  a  little  country  town,  and  had  two  daugh- 
ters called  Anne  and  Alice.  They  were  very  poor. 
In  fact,  the  united  income  of  the  family  did  not  ex- 
ceed two  hundred  a  year,  which  is  not  much  when  three 
ladies  have  to  pay  for  all  they  receive  and  give  out 
of  it.  Mrs.  Crewe  had  been  a  pretty  woman  in  her 
time,  and  she  saw  with  satisfaction  that  her  girls 
were  taking  after  her.  So  she  hoped  that  in  spite  of 
their  poverty  they  would  some  day  marry  and  relieve 
her  income  of  the  long,  depressing  strain  upon  it. 
In  many  respects  she  was  a  foolish  woman,  but  she 
took  pains  with  the  education  of  Anne  and  Alice. 
She  sent  them  regularly  to  school,  and  she  looked  after 
their  health  and  their  manners  as  well  as  she  could. 

Luckily  there  was  an  excellent  school  in  Burnside, 
where  the  girls  were  taught  for  next  to  nothing. 
Nevertheless,  in  after  years,  Mrs.  Crewe  bore  the 
school  a  grudge,  because  she  felt  sure  that  Anne  had 
picked  up  her  unfeminine  ideas  within  its  walls.  Mrs. 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        203 

Cnewe  had  lived  in  Burnside  all  her  life,  and  her 
opinions  on  most  matters  were  vague,  but  she  had  no 
doubts  at  all  about  what  was  feminine  and  what  was 
not. 

In  complexion  and  stature  the  sisters  resembled  each 
other;  but  in  expression  and  manner  they  were  widely 
apart.  Alice,  every  one  said,  was  a  sweet  girl.  She 
had  a  willowy  figure  and  great  pathetic  eyes.  She 
cried  rather  easily,  and  often  had  headaches,  and  at 
school  she  did  not  distinguish  herself.  But  in  Burn- 
side  most  people  thought  her  a  much  nicer  girl  than 
her  sister,  and  when  Mr.  Beeston  went  to  the  house 
twice  in  one  week,  everybody  hoped  he  went  for  Alice 
and  not  for  Anne. 

No  one  in  Burnside  denied  that  Anne  had  brains. 
In  fact,  some  folks  went  as  far  as  to  say  it  was  a  pity 
she  had  not  been  born  a  man,  and  therefore  meant 
to  use  them.  At  school  she  carried  off  prize  after 
prize,  and  for  many  a  year  she  played  the  dangerous 
part  of  show-scholar.  But  she  never  grew  disagree- 
ably conceited,  although  you  could  have  found  people 
in  Burnside  who  thought  her  so.  There  is  a  degree 
of  conceit  that  most  of  us  easily  forgive  to  youth,  be- 
cause we  know  what  shocks  it  will  sustain  in  the 
battle  of  life,  and  how  soon  a  sound  nature  sloughs  it. 
Of  course,  young  people  are  tiresome  creatures.  They 
come  knocking  at  our  doors  with  their  new  ideas,  and 
their  inconvenient  requests,  and  their  anxiety  "  to  go 
out  for  to  see  " ;  and  they  hardly  listen  when  we  im- 


204        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

plore  them  to  avoid  knocks,  and  stay  quietly  at  home. 
"  Knocks  ?  "  cry  they.  "  Honour  and  glory  and  the 
kingdoms  of  the  world."  At  the  age  of  seventeen 
Anne  Crewe  said  Burnside  stifled  her. 

She  wanted  to  go  to  college,  but  that  was  out  of 
the  question,  because  of  the  expense.  She  had  no  de- 
sire to  teach,  or  to  nurse,  or  to  stand  behind  a  counter. 
She  wanted  to  write,  and  this  ambition  had  not  been 
roused  by  inward  genius,  but  by  the  schoolmistress's 
sister,  who  was  a  successful  journalist.  The  sister 
sometimes  stayed  in  Burnside,  and  always  made  much 
of  Anne.  So  when  the  girl  found  she  could  not  go 
to  Girton,  she  said  she  wished  to  live  in  London  and 
write  for  the  press.  Such  a  proposal  had  never  issued 
from  the  lips  of  a  Burnside  young  person  in  the 
memory  of  man,  and  when  Mrs.  Crewe  invited  the 
town  to  condole  with  her  it  condoled  unanimously. 
The  oldest  maiden  inhabitant  told  Anne  that  if  she 
stayed  at  home  like  a  good  girl  she  would  be  pre- 
paring herself  for  the  duties  of  a  married  woman.  Of 
course,  as  she  had  no  money  and  few  friends,  she 
might  never  be  married;  but  every  girl  should  wish 
for  a  home  of  her  own,  and  spend  her  youth  in 
scrambling  for  it.  Anne  did  not  take  these  remon- 
strances so  patiently  as  she  should  have  done,  and  she 
was  even  indiscreet  enough  to  say  she  would  rather 
go  to  Girton  than  marry  her  grandfather's  friend,  as 
her  schoolfellow  Rosie  Lloyd  had  done.  From  the 
moment  this  remark  became  public  property,  Burn- 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        205 

side  made  up  its  mind  that  Anne  Crewe  was  "  un- 
feminine,"  and  wondered  thereat,  which  shows  that 
Burnside  went  with  the  swim,  and  puzzled  itself  about 
questions  of  heredity. 

At  sixteen  a  girl  without  money  cannot  as  a  rule 
do  much  to  escape  from  uncongenial  surroundings ; 
and  when  you  are  young  you  think  that  the  thing  you 
want  and  cannot  have  at  once  will  not  be  worth  having 
later  on.  Poor  Anne  fretted  and  fumed  all  through 
her  early  youth,  and  offended  her  neighbours  by  show- 
ing how  much  she  wished  to  get  away.  A  few  felt 
sorry  for  her,  but  the  majority  called  her  an  am- 
bitious, discontented  girl,  and  supposed  that  they  com- 
pletely described  her.  The  same  people  would  have 
been  full  of  pity  for  a  bird  beating  its  wings  against 
a  cage.  Many  of  us  are  kinder  to  animals  than  to 
human  beings. 

It  was  only  to  be  expected  that  a  sweet  girl  like  Alice 
would  behave  very  differently  from  her  sister,  and  it 
seemed  like  a  reward  for  good  conduct  when,  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  she  received  one  of  those  summonses 
all  women  ardently  desire.  In  Burnside  the  marriage 
of  a  penniless  young  lady  was  not  an  everyday  event. 
There  were  very  few  young  gentlemen  in  the  town,  and 
five  girls  out  of  six  never  married  at  all.  Mrs.  Crewe 
may  have  been  a  silly  woman,  but  this  fact  had  not 
escaped  her  observation ;  so  when  the  struggling  local 
solicitor,  Mr.  Beeston,  proposed  to  Alice,  she  urged 
the  girl  not  to  throw  away  a  chance  that  would  prob- 


206        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

ably  never  occur  again.  Like  a  dutiful  daughter, 
Alice  obeyed  her  mother  and  accepted  the  man.  She 
did  not  like  him  much,  but  Mrs.  Crewe  said  that 
women  always  grew  fond  of  their  husbands  after  mar- 
riage. Meanwhile,  she  enjoyed  getting  new  clothes 
and  wedding  presents,  and  she  thought  it  was  better 
to  be  called  Mrs.  Beeston  than  to  remain  Alice  Crewe 
all  her  days.  The  young  couple  would  be  very  short 
of  money.  Anne  foresaw  that  her  sister  would  be 
worse  off  as  a  matron  than  she  had  been  as  a  maid, 
and  she  asked  her  mother  to  point  out  the  advantages 
of  a  marriage  neither  sanctified  by  affection  nor  com- 
forted by  money.  But  Mrs.  Crewe  only  quoted  texts 
at  her  elder  daughter,  and  continued  to  cut  out  under- 
clothing for  her  younger  one. 

In  course  of  time  Anne  had  an  offer,  and  refused  it. 
She  did  not  care  for  the  man,  and  she  said  she  would 
not  marry  for  board  and  lodging.  When  this  view 
of  hers  leaked  out,  Burnside  began  to  think  her  hardly 
respectable.  It  compared  her  with  that  sweet,  woman- 
ly creature,  her  sister,  who  had  five  children  and  a 
broken  constitution  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  and  it 
felt  quite  relieved  when  she  suddenly  cut  her  leading 
strings  and  escaped  to  London.  For  five  years  she 
had  tried  through  the  penny  post  to  get  her  foot  on 
the  journalistic  ladder,  and  at  last  some  one  at  the 
top  reached  her  a  helping  hand.  An  editor  who  had 
been  taking  anything  she  sent  of  late  offered  her 
regular  work. 


ANNE  AND   THE   ANARCHIST        207 

From  Burnside  Anne  Crewe  vanished.  She  did  not 
make  a  name  by  her  writing  —  at  least,  not  a  name  that 
reached  Burnside.  Her  mother  said  that  she  sent 
cheerful  letters,  and  seemed  able  to  maintain  herself; 
in  fact,  she  once  or  twice  came  to  Alice's  assistance 
with  a  cheque.  At  first  Mrs.  Crewe  used  to  write  for 
Anne  whenever  anything  went  a  little  wrong:  if  her 
servant  gave  notice,  for  instance,  or  if  Alice's  chil- 
dren had  the  measles.  Anne  used  to  explain  that  she 
had  regular  work  to  do,  and  could  not  run  off  when  it 
suited  her,  but  no  one  in  Burnside  accepted  that  ex- 
cuse for  her  selfish  behaviour.  Though  she  some- 
times sent  Alice  a  cheque,  people  agreed  in  whispers 
that  money  cannot  make  up  for  personal  sympathy. 
Anne  did  not  even  spend  her  annual  holiday  in  Burn- 
side,  and  perhaps  it  was  natural  her  mother  should 
think  this  unkind.  She  had  no  idea  that  her  daughter 
did  hard  work  for  her  pay,  and  really  needed  rest  and 
bracing  air  once  in  twelve  months.  Mrs.  Crewe  was 
very  silly  about  it.  She  refused  to  visit  Anne  or  to 
travel  with  her,  and  in  Burnside  she  hardly  ever  spoke 
of  her.  People  thought  there  must  be  a  good  reason 
for  her  silence,  and  they  pictured  Anne  starving  in  a 
garret,  addressing  an  unemployed  mob  from  a  cart, 
and  probably  wearing  a  divided  skirt. 

Mrs.  Crewe  always  talked  of  "  my  daughter  Mrs. 
Beeston  "  in  a  voice  of  maternal  pride,  although  poor 
Alice's  affairs  were  far  from  flourishing.  She  had 
not  learned  to  love  her  husband  after  marriage;  and 


208        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

you  can  hardly  blame  her  for  this,  because  he  had 
turned  out  a  drunkard  as  well  as  a  fool.  He  was  his 
wife's  inferior  in  every  respect  but  that  of  physical 
strength,  and  he  proved  his  superiority  in  this  one 
point  by  beating  her.  Of  course  his  practice  did  not 
flourish,  for  his  habits  were  not  hidden  under  a 
bushel,  and  as  his  family  increased  every  year,  it  soon 
became  difficult  to  satisfy  their  appetite  for  bread  and 
butter,  as  well  as  his  own  appetite  for  drink.  He  had 
a  long-suffering  set  of  clients,  and  a  mother-in-law 
who  would  starve  herself  for  her  child  and  grand- 
children, so  he  took  things  easily.  Mrs.  Crewe  had  a 
weak  spot  in  her  understanding  for  her  son-in-law  the 
lawyer,  even  when  she  had  seen  the  bruises  on  Alice's 
arms. 

"Are  you  sure  you  didn't  provoke  him,  darling?" 
she  said. 

Some  of  the  children  died,  and  the  others  were  usu- 
ally ill.  They  were  born  without  constitutions,  and 
brought  up  without  care,  for  at  the  age  of  twenty-six 
their  mother  had  neither  strength  nor  spirit  left. 
Poverty,  sickness,  and  sorrow  had  worn  out  the  girl 
who  had  given  herself  so  lightly  at  her  mother's  bid- 
ding. The  parent  blunders,  and  the  child  pays;  so  it 
was,  so  it  is,  and  so  it  ever  must  be. 

But  it  is  doubtful  whether  Mrs.  Crewe  realised  that 
she  had  not  done  well  for  her  daughter  in  advising 
her  to  marry  Mr.  Beeston.  She  would  have  been  bit- 
terly disappointed  if  Alice  had  not  gone  forth  from  her 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        209 

house  as  a  bride.  She  seemed  to  consider  the  world 
a  vale  of  tears,  in  which  it  is  better  to  have  a  drunken 
son-in-law  than  none  at  all,  and  more  satisfactory  to 
bury  grandchildren  than  never  to  possess  them.  She 
still  had  the  pleasure  of  alluding  to  him  as  "  my  son- 
in-law,"  but  this  was  soon  the  only  pleasure  left  to  her 
in  connection  with  Mr.  Beeston. 

There  are  some  unhappy  women  in  the  world  who 
can  imagine  what  his  wife  and  children  suffered  at  his 
hands;  what  the  years  brought  them  of  want  and 
bodily  terror.  Once,  in  a  drunken  fit,  he  half  killed 
his  eldest  boy;  another  time  he  set  a  dog  at  his  wife 
and  brought  on  a  serious  illness.  Over  and  over 
again  the  children  were  saved  from  starvation  by  Mrs. 
Crewe  and  various  friends.  And  every  year  Alice 
carried  a  child  beneath  her  breaking  heart,  a  child  born 
to  a  father's  curses  and  a  mother's  tears.  At  last, 
one  winter  evening,  Mr.  Beeston  went  into  his  wife's 
room  with  a  hatchet,  and  said  he  was  going  to  murder 
her.  He  had  done  this  before,  but  Alice  had  never 
got  used  to  it.  Her  nerves  were  weak.  She  man- 
aged to  escape  to  a  back  room  and  lock  the  door 
against  him ;  but  as  he  followed  her  with  the  hatchet, 
and  began  very  coolly  and  resolutely  to  cut  out  a  panel 
of  the  door,  and  as  the  children  were  in  the  room  with 
her,  she  felt  driven  to  open  the  window  and  call  for 
help.  Otherwise,  she  reflected,  he  would  come  in  and 
kill  them  all,  and  their  fate  would  be  described  in  one 
of  those  little  newspaper  paragraphs  that  you  find  un- 


der  the  heading  of  "  The  Provinces,"  and  do  not  read 
because  they  are  so  disagreeable. 

Luckily  for  Alice  their  doctor  heard  her  calling,  and 
he  happened  to  be  a  man  with  his  wits  about  him.  He 
came  into  the  house  armed  with  a  bottle  of  brandy, 
and  invited  Mr.  Beeston  to  share  it  with  him.  When 
the  bottle  was  finished  the  lawyer  could  not  move. 
Alice  and  her  children  escaped  to  Mrs.  Crewe's  house, 
and  the  doctor,  with  the  help  of  a  colleague,  carried 
the  sot  to  the  nearest  lunatic  asylum,  where  the  author- 
ities agreed  that  he  had  better  finish  his  days.  So 
that  was  the  end  of  Alice's  married  life;  and  the 
problem  that  now  presented  itself  to  Mrs.  Crewe  was 
how  to  make  her  income  of  two  hundred  pounds  sup- 
port herself,  her  sickly  daughter,  and  three  sickly 
children.  The  sale  of  Mr.  Beeston's  business  would 
hardly  suffice  to  pay  the  asylum  fees. 

When  Mrs.  Crewe  had  applied  herself  to  the  problem 
for  some  time,  without  much  success,  business  con- 
nected with  Mr.  Beeston's  disordered  affairs  took  her 
up  to  London.  She  wrote  to  Anne  beforehand,  and 
received  a  warmly  worded  invitation  by  return  of  post. 
Anne  said  she  could  put  her  mother  up,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, would  meet  her  at  the  station.  But  just  before 
Mrs.  Crewe  started,  a  letter  came  to  say  that  Anne 
could  not  be  at  the  station,  because  she  had  to  go  into 
the  country  and  interview  a  Russian  Anarchist.  She 
told  her  mother  to  take  a  cab  from  St.  Pancras  to  St. 
George's  Mansions,  to  ask  for  the  key  of  Miss  Crewe's 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        211 

flat,  to  instal  herself  in  the  blue  bedroom,  and  to 
make  herself  tea  by  the  sitting-room  fire. 

"  It  sounds  quite  mysterious,"  said  Alice  to  Mrs. 
Crewe ;  "  as  if  Anne  had  made  a  clandestine  marriage, 
and  set  up  a  home  of  her  own.  But  if  she  were  mar- 
ried, she  would  not  be  running  about  the  country  inter- 
viewing Anarchists." 

"  It  seems  an  odd  thing  for  a  young  lady,  and  my 
daughter,  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe.  "  Poor,  dear 
Anne !  I  suppose  she  will  have  lost  all  her  good 
looks." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alice  gloomily.  "  She  has  not 
had  so  hard  a  life  as  I  have." 

"  Not  so  hard  a  life ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Crewe  in 
amazement ;  "  but  she  has  earned  her  own  living  for 
years,  and  you  have  been  supported  by  your  husband." 

Alice  looked  in  the  glass  at  her  grey  hair,  her  sunken 
cheeks,  and  at  a  scar  on  her  forehead,  but  she  said 
nothing.  It  was  time  for  Mrs.  Crewe  to  go. 

Her  train  arrived  at  St.  Pancras  a  little  late,  and  she 
did  not  get  to  St.  George's  Mansions  until  five  o'clock. 
She  was  taken  up  to  her  daughter's  flat  in  the  lift, 
and  then  left  to  herself,  and  as  she  peeped  in  at  each 
room,  she  felt  like  the  girl  in  the  story  of  the  Three 
Bears.  It  was  really  a  very  small  place,  and  the  fur- 
niture had  not  cost  much;  but  you  must  remember 
that  Mrs.  Crewe  knew  nothing  about  the  ways  of  the 
modern  bachelor  girl.  She  spoke  of  every  single 
woman  as  an  "  old  maid,"  and  expected  her  to  be 


212        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

either  soured  or  silly.  She  sat  down  in  her  daugh- 
ter's sitting-room  and  wondered  what  the  world  was 
coming  to,  and  how  much  Burnside  would  believe  of 
what  she  told  them  when  she  got  back. 

Anne  had  taken  great  pains  with  the  room,  but  her 
friends  saw  nothing  very  wonderful  about  it.  Per- 
haps they  envied  her  the  oriel  window  with  two  little 
steps  up  to  it.  She  had  found  the  pretty  fireplace 
ready  for  her,  and  the  green  tiles,  and  the  white  paint, 
and  a  delicate  wall-paper.  Her  one  extravagance  had 
been  a  Persian  carpet.  The  chairs  and  tables  were 
plain  cheap  ones;  books  and  pots  and  pictures  collect 
themselves.  She  had  bought  daffodils  in  honour  of 
her  mother's  visit,  and  the  sun  always  shone  in  of  an 
afternoon,  when  he  shone  on  London  at  all.  So  the 
room  looked  pleasant  and  spring-like,  and,  in  Mrs. 
Crewe's  opinion,  quite  luxurious.  Presently  Anne  ar- 
rived, and  she  looked  pleasant  and  spring-like  too. 

"  My  dear !  "  exclaimed  her  mother,  "  you  seem 
younger  than  Alice,  and  prettier  than  ever." 

"  I  have  not  had  the  trouble  poor  Alice  has,"  said 
Anne,  and  she  kissed  her  mother  affectionately. 

"  Poor  Alice !  "  she  said  again,  half  to  herself,  as  she 
made  the  tea. 

Somehow  it  had  never  occurred  to  Mrs.  Crewe  to 
think  of  her  married  daughter  as  "  poor  Alice  " ;  but 
to  her  Burnside  friends  she  had  often  spoken  of  "  poor 
Anne." 

"  You  must  work  very  hard  to  earn  all  this,"  she 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        213 

said,  looking  round  the  room.  She  could  not  give  up 
her  old  point  of  view  without  striking  a  blow  for  it. 

"  Yes,  I  work  hard,"  said  Anne. 

"  But  you  look  very  well." 

"  I  am  very  well." 

Mrs.  Crewe  sighed. 

"  Poor  Alice ! "  she  said  after  a  pause,  and  she  felt 
that  since  she  arrived  in  London  she  had  travelled  far. 

They  talked  chiefly  of  Alice  all  the  evening;  and  it 
was  only  as  Anne  bade  her  mother  good-night  that  she 
lingered  a  little  and  said  something  of  her  own  affairs. 

"  They  have  just  made  me  sub-editor,"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  that  means  an  increase  of  salary.  Then  I 
write  for  some  of  the  Colonial  papers.  I  shall  be  able 
to  help  you  and  Alice.  I  had  no  idea  things  were  so 
bad." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe,  "  do  you  never 
think  of  marriage  yourself?" 

Anne  blushed. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  that  blush,  Mrs.  Crewe  would 
have  gone  to  bed  with  the  pleasant  conviction  that  the 
worst  of  her  troubles  were  over.  Instead  of  which 
she  began  the  very  next  day  to  look  out  anxiously  for 
its  cause.  She  soon  observed  that  in  Anne's  talk  and 
Anne's  plans  the  name  of  Mr.  Zagadin  occurred  more 
often  than  any  other;  and  she  wished  her  daughter 
would  mention  his  age  and  prospects,  or,  better  still, 
present  him,  so  that  Mrs.  Crewe  could  judge  whether 
Anne's  establishment  in  life  as  Mrs.  Zagadin  would  be 


214        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

a  satisfactory  step  in  her  career.  If  she  married,  she 
would  probably  be  unable  to  help  her  mother  and  sister 
much.  A  matron  has  more  claims  on  her  purse  than 
a  spinster,  and  less  control  of  her  money.  Neverthe- 
less, Mrs.  Crewe  hoped  that  Mr.  Zagadin  was  a  fine 
fellow,  and  would  press  his  suit.  Even  though  she  had 
to  pinch  and  scrape  to  the  end  of  her  days  in  con- 
sequence, she  wished  to  see  Anne  married  —  that  is, 
she  wished  it  if  Mr.  Zagadin  passed  muster.  For- 
merly, she  would  have  wished  it  in  any  case. 

Before  she  had  been  twenty-four  hours  in  town  the 
opportunity  she  desired  presented  itself.  Anne  came 
home  earlier  than  usual,  and  said  that  Mr.  Zagadin 
had  wired  to  ask  whether  he  might  come  to  dinner 
there  that  night.  She  had  arranged  already  for  extra 
supplies,  and  she  had  brought  in  fresh  flowers  for  the 
table.  She  set  it  herself  with  mimosa  and  green 
glasses,  and  then  she  went  away  and  put  on  her  best 
blouse.  Mrs.  Crewe,  who  had  spent  a  depressing  after- 
noon over  her  son-in-law's  affairs,  hoped  that  the  sight 
of  Mr.  Zagadin  would  raise  her  spirits.  She  sighed  a 
little  over  his  name,  and  wished  it  was  a  Mr.  Smith  or 
Brown  -for  whom  Anne  brought  home  mimosa  sprays. 

"What  is  he,  my  dear?"  she  asked,  as  her  daugh- 
ter and  she  sat  over  the  fire  awaiting  their  guest. 

"An  Anarchist,"  said  Anne ;  "  a  Russian  Anarchist." 

"  Dear  me !  Not  the  one  you  interviewed  yester- 
day?" 

"  That  was  his   cousin,  who  is  a  great  inventive 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        215 

genius,  they  say.  He  told  me  he  had  nearly  found  out 
how  to  make  bombs  as  small  as  peppercorns,  and  so 
powerful  that  if  you  dropped  one  from  the  top  of  St. 
Paul's,  it  would  wreck  London." 

"  How  terrible !  But  your  Mr.  Zagadin  isn't  that 
kind  of  Anarchist,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  He  isn't  inventive.  He  is  in  very  bad  health,  poor 
fellow,  ever  since  he  was  tortured." 

"  Tortured !  " 

"  Yes ;  he  will  show  you  the  marks  on  his  hands. 
And  then  he  worked  in  the  salt  mines  for  years,  and 
his  eyes  are  weak.  So  are  his  lungs,  because  he  es- 
caped in  winter,  and  nearly  died  of  exposure." 

"  But,  my  dear,  how  does  he  earn  his  living?  Being 
an  Anarchist  won't  pay  his  weekly  bills,  I  suppose." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Of  course,  mother,  you 
mustn't  expect  him  to  look  and  talk  like  a  Burnside 
young  man." 

"  A  Burnside  young  man  wouldn't  ask  himself  to 
dine  with  a  young  unmarried  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe 
at  once,  for  this  had  been  on  her  mind. 

"  Oh,  he  wouldn't  think  anything  of  that,"  said  Anne. 

"  But,  my  dear,  Anarchists  are  such  wicked  people." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Zagadin  isn't  wicked." 

"  But  they  want  to  kill  everybody." 

"  This  one  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly  —  at  least,  not  an 
English  fly." 

"  I  suppose  he  won't  have  any  dynamite  with  him  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Crewe  nervously, 


216        ANNE  AND   THE  ANARCHIST 


II 


MRS.  CREWE  looked  at  the  Anarchist  and  the  Anarchist 
looked  at  her,  and  neither  of  them  guessed  how  little 
two  people  so  wide  apart  could  see  of  each  other. 
The  Anarchist's  dreadful  doctrines  were  not  written 
on  his  face  or  presaged  by  his  body.  Mrs.  Crewe 
thought  she  had  never  seen  a  man  so  mild  and  fair 
and  small ;  and  when  she  heard  him  cough,  she  wished 
she  could  put  him  to  bed  with  a  mustard  plaster  and 
a  hot  drink.  He  had,  however,  eaten  an  excellent 
dinner,  and  now,  with  the  permission  of  his  hostess, 
he  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  Anne  had  warned  her 
mother  that  he  would  wish  to  do  so,  and  Mrs.  Crewe 
had  said  that  of  course  you  could  not  expect  an 
Anarchist  to  observe  conventional  rules  and  refrain 
from  tobacco  in  the  presence  of  ladies.  Probably  he 
associated  with  ladies  who  smoked  themselves.  Anne 
said  that  it  was  quite  likely,  and  determined  not  to 
get  out  her  own  cigarette-case  this  evening. 

Mr.  Zagadin  talked  good,  fluent  English,  and  he 
told  his  stories  with  little  dramatic  gestures  that  gave 
gave  them  point,  and  convinced  Mrs.  Crewe  of  his 
honesty.  He  could  not  describe  the  horrors  of  the 
knout  so  vividly  if  he  had  not  seen  it  administered  — 
the  track  of  the  peppercorns,  but  Mr.  Zagadin  knew 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        217 

and  his  smile  came  with  a  nervous  twitch  that  made 
you  miserable,  and  all  the  evening  his  cough  tore  him 
in  pieces.  Yet  he  went  on  talking,  and  the  two  women 
listened,  fascinated.  All  he  had  to  tell  them  stirred 
their  deep  compassion,  and  the  poor  little  man  him- 
self did  likewise.  A  child  would  have  seen  that  he 
was  half-starved  and  too  thinly  clad.  When  he  said 
good-night,  Mrs.  Crewe  wished  it  was  possible  to  wrap 
the  roast  beef  in  brown  paper  and  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
but  she  felt  sure  that  even  an  Anarchist  would  con- 
sider such  behaviour  a  breach  of  etiquette. 

"  Poor  little  man !  "  she  said,  when  Anne  came  back 
to  the  fire.  Anne  looked  at  her  mother  gratefully. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said ;  "  one  longs  to  be  the 
sun  and  shine  on  him." 

There  is  no  ignorance  so  dark  and  obstinate  as 
the  ignorance  of  near  relationship  may  be.  Strangers 
will  not  belittle  or  exalt  you  as  unfairly  as  your  kith 
and  kin  will  when  they  are  inclined  either  way.  Mrs. 
Crewe  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  readjust  her 
ideas  of  Anne,  whose  early  youth  had  vexed  and 
puzzled  her.  But  to-night  scales  fell  from  her  eyes, 
and  for  an  amazing  moment  she  saw  her  child  as 
others  saw  her  —  a  bright,  sweet  -  tempered  woman 
with  brains  and  energy,  able  to  help  a  creature  weaker 
than  herself ;  willing,  perhaps,  to  give  herself  unwisely 
away. 

"  What  a  pretty  blouse  that  is ! "  she  said ;  and 
Anne  thought  the  observation  rather  silly  and  ill- 


218        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

timed.      She   did   not   know   what   wise,   appropriate 
reflections  had  preceded  it. 

Nothing  more  was  said  about  Mr.  Zagadin  that 
night,  but  Mrs.  Crewe  lay  awake  for  hours  thinking 
of  him.  Self-sacrifice  is  presumably  a  virtue,  but  it 
is  not  the  one  a  mother  wishes  her  child  to  practise 
when  she  chooses  a  husband.  At  least,  most  mothers 
would  prefer  more  cheerful  reasons  for  a  wedding.  Of 
course,  Mrs.  Crewe  still  desired  a  wedding,  and  she  was 
sure,  after  one  evening's  acquaintance,  that  Mr.  Zaga- 
din did  not  resemble  Mr.  Beeston.  He  was  evidently 
amiable,  though  a  little  dazed  in  his  mind.  It  was  most 
unfortunate  that  his  physique  should  be  so  feeble  and 
his  opinions  so  wicked  and  inconvenient.  How  can  a 
woman  settle  down  comfortably  with  a  man  who  may 
be  "  wanted  "  any  moment  under  the  Dangerous  Ex- 
plosives Act?  True,  it  was  his  cousin  who  was  on 
the  track  of  the  peppercorns,  but  Mr.  Zagadin  knew 
all  about  them.  True,  also,  that  Mr.  Zagadin  said 
neither  he  nor  his  cousin  wished  to  drop  them  from 
St.  Paul's,  because  they  felt  most  grateful  to  the 
English  people  for  allowing  them  to  pursue  their 
researches  unmolested.  But  Mrs.  Crewe  supposed 
that,  when  they  were  manufactured,  the  two  gentle- 
men would  drop  them  somewhere  —  probably  on  the 
homesteads  of  their  own  people.  She  thought  that  if 
the  Russian  Government  caught  him  again,  it  would 
go  very  hard  with  him.  In  fact,  he  had  said  as  much, 
and  yet  spoken  as  if  his  return  might  be  ordered 


ANNE   AND    THE   ANARCHIST        219 

at  a  moment's  notice  any  time.  Moreover,  the  poor 
fellow  was  in  bad  health.  Even  if  he  knew  how  to 
earn  a  living,  or  wished  to  do  so,  he  would  not  be 
well  enough.  Apparently  he  sat  indoors  all  day  trans- 
lating abstruse  German  philosophy  into  Russian.  It 
was  a  fine  employment,  no  doubt,  but  not  one  by  which 
a  man  can  support  a  wife  and  family.  Mrs.  Crewe  did 
not  know  much  about  the  ins  and  outs  of  Grub  Street, 
but  she  knew  that. 

During  the  next  few  days  Mrs.  Crewe  tried  hard  to 
find  out  Anne's  point  of  view,  because,  after  all  these 
years  of  semi-estrangement,  she  could  not  expect  to 
have  much  voice  in  her  daughter's  affairs.  But  on 
this  subject  Anne  was  not  communicative,  and  when 
her  mother  had  been  a  week  in  London  she  still  did 
not  know  whether  the  Anarchist  would  ever  be  her 
son-in-law.  It  was  an  uneasy  position,  because  by  the 
end  of  the  week  she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  did  not  wish  him  to  be.  Whenever  she  could  she 
engaged  Anne  in  conversation  about  Anarchists  — 
their  tenets,  ways,  and  prospects  in  life.  She  also 
read  one  or  two  numbers  of  a  little  newspaper  in  which 
Mr.  Zagadin  and  his  friends  expressed  their  opinions. 
She  also  saw  Mr.  Zagadin  nearly  every  day,  and  heard 
him  cough  and  watched  him  smile.  By  the  end  of  the 
fourth  day  her  nerves  were  not  what  they  had  been, 
and  when  she  went  to  sleep  she  had  bad  dreams  of 
plots  and  explosions.  In  the  daytime,  as  she  travelled 
about  London  by  train  and  omnibus,  she  wondered 


220        ANNE   AND    THE   ANARCHIST 

whether  the  apparent  peace  and  safety  everywhere 
would  soon  be  exchanged  for  the  most  awful  scenes 
of  bloodshed  and  violence.  If  the  little  newspaper  were 
a  true  prophet,  this  great  city,  these  busy,  prosperous 
citizens,  would  soon  be  scattered  and  destroyed  by  a 
handful  of  Mr.  Zagadin's  friends.  Mrs.  Crewe  felt 
that  when  this  happened  it  would  be  most  unpleasant 
to  admit  that  Anne  was  Mrs.  Zagadin,  especially  in 
Burnside,  where  no  one  had  ever  appreciated  Anne. 
It  would  spoil  entirely  the  impression  Mrs.  Crewe 
meant  to  make  when  she  got  back  by  describing  Anne's 
success  and  Anne's  clothes  and  furniture.  Burnside 
had  openly  pitied  both  Alice  and  her  mother  for  all 
they  endured  at  the  hands  of  the  lawyer.  It  is  in 
human  nature  to  wish  a  taste  of  change.  Mrs.  Crewe 
had  drunk  of  pity  to  the  dregs,  and  since  her  arrival 
in  London  she  had  looked  forward  to  stirring  a  little 
harmless  envy  by  her  pictures  of  Anne's  flat. 

Mr.  Zagadin  usually  paid  his  visits  in  the  evening 
or  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  Twice  a  week  he  came  as 
a  matter  of  course  to  give  Anne  a  lesson  in  Russian. 
The  other  evenings  some  excuse  or  accident  accounted 
for  his  coming;  but  unless  Anne  meant  to  go  out,  he 
always  came.  Mrs.  Crewe  and  he  were  excellent 
friends,  and  she  sent  to  Burnside  for  a  bottle  of  home- 
made cough  mixture  that  her  grandchildren  took  every 
winter.  She  advised  Mr.  Zagadin  to  try  a  double  dose 
at  bedtime,  since  he  suffered  from  sleeplessness,  and 
she  had  been  so  distressed  by  the  holes  in  his  coat  that 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        221 

she  persuaded  him  to  let  her  borrow  it  for  twenty-four 
hours  and  thoroughly  mend  it.  He  did  not  appear 
until  he  had  it  back  again,  and  she  felt  sure  that  he 
possessed  no  other.  She  could  not  help  liking  him, 
and  sometimes,  when  Anne  was  away  for  a  little 
while,  they  had  animated  discussions  about  the  vast 
questions  in  which  he  was  interested.  They  were  such 
very  big,  difficult  questions,  that  hitherto  they  had  not 
come  in  Mrs.  Crewe's  way  either  for  discussion  or 
consideration.  But  so  long  as  Mr.  Zagadin  could  talk 
he  did  not  seem  to  mind  much  who  listened,  and  Mrs. 
Crewe  did  her  best  to  wrestle  with  his  erring  spirit. 
Her  experience  as  a  Sunday-school  teacher  stood  her 
in  stead.  But  every  word  he  spoke  convinced  her 
more  firmly  that  he  was  not  the  man  for  Anne. 

One  afternoon  she  was  sitting  by  herself  and  trying 
to  make  up  her  mind  that  she  must  soon  go  back  to 
Burnside  and  leave  her  daughter  to  manage  her  own 
affairs.  She  felt  happier  than  usual  about  Alice, 
because  her  sister  had  just  sent  her  a  cheque  for  fifty 
pounds,  and  she  would  have  felt  happy  about  Anne  if 
it  had  not  been  for  Mr.  Zagadin.  She  had  enjoyed 
her  visit  to  London.  Anne  had  taken  her  to  several 
theatres,  and  bought  her  a  new  bonnet  and  cloak,  and 
invited  people  to  meet  her  —  respectable  people  who 
possessed  more  than  one  coat  and  did  not  want  to 
blow  up  their  fellow-creatures  —  not  even  those  who 
possessed  twenty  coats  to  their  one.  Mrs.  Crewe  saw 
that  a  capable,  generous  woman  like  Anne  may  be 


222        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

almost  as  useful  to  her  family  as  a  man,  and  when 
she  saw  that,  she  had  made  fair  progress  for  a  woman 
of  her  age  and  superstitions.  Nevertheless,  she  would 
not  have  grudged  her  daughter  to  a  steady-going  Mr. 
Smith.  She  did  grudge  her  to  Mr.  Zagadin. 

Mrs.  Crewe  had  just  put  the  little  brass  kettle  on 
for  tea  when  the  door-bell  rang.  She  had  to  answer  it, 
and  she  never  liked  doing  so,  because  she  always 
expected  a  tramp  or  a  burglar.  It  relieved  her  greatly 
to  hear  Mr.  Zagadin  cough  as  she  crossed  the  hall. 
She  knew  his  cough  quite  well,  and  she  hurried  to  let 
him  in. 

"  You  ought  not  to  be  out  in  this  weather,"  she 
said,  for  it  had  poured  with  rain  all  day,  and  she  saw 
that  he  looked  grey  and  cold.  The  rain  stood  in  drops 
on  his  thin  beard  and  dripped  from  his  umbrella.  He 
could  not  speak  for  coughing. 

"  My  daughter  is  not  at  home,"  continued  Mrs. 
Crewe,  "  but  you  had  better  come  in  and  get  dry,  and 
let  me  give  you  a  cup  of  tea.  You'll  catch  your " 

She  smothered  the  end  of  her  phrase  in  active  care 
of  his  hat  and  umbrella.  He  looked  so  like  death  from 
cold  that  she  felt  a  delicacy  about  reminding  him 
of  it. 

"  I  must  see  your  daughter,"  said  Mr.  Zagadin. 
"When  will  she  be  home?" 

"  Oh !  any  time.  I  don't  quite  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Crewe. 

Mr.  Zagadin  followed  her  into  the  sitting-room,  sat 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        223 

down  in  an  easy-chair  close  to  the  fire,  and  shivered. 
Airs.  Crewe  looked  at  his  face,  and  then  she  looked 
at  his  feet.  She  was  an  elderly  lady  and  he  was  a 
very  young  man,  and  he  was  sick  unto  death  and  he 
had  a  hole  in  his  boot. 

"  Take  off  your  boots  directly ! "  she  commanded. 
"  We'll  dry  them.  If  you're  afraid  of  Anne  coming 
back,  I'll  lock  the  door ;  but  I  don't  think  she'll  be  here 
yet." 

The  Anarchist  did  as  she  told  him  with  the  utmost 
docility.  He  drank  two  cups  of  tea  and  huddled  over 
the  fire  and  coughed  his  dreadful  graveyard  cough. 
In  time  the  warmth  and  Mrs.  Crewe's  ministrations 
revived  him  a  little.  Presently  the  door-bell  rang,  and 
Mr.  Zagadin  got  into  a  fluster  and  put  on  his  boots, 
though  they  were  not  dry,  and  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Crewe's 
assurance  that  Anne  always  let  herself  in  with  a  latch- 
key. 

It  was  a  telegram  from  Anne  to  say  she  had  been 
detained  and  would  not  be  back  till  seven.  When 
Mrs.  Crewe  read  this  message  aloud  Mr.  Zagadin 
turned  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

"  But  I  must  see  her  —  I  must ! "  he  said  wildly. 
"  Where  is  she  ?  I  will  go  to  her !  "  and  he  staggered 
to  his  feet. 

Mrs.  Crewe  thought  he  had  gone  mad  —  more  mad 
than  usual.  "  I  have  no  idea  where  she  is,"  she  replied ; 
"  her  editor  sends  her  here  and  there  at  a  moment's 
notice.  You  know  how  it  is." 


224        ANN£   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Crewe. 
"  Then  I  must  trust  to  you,"  he  said. 

"  Yes  —  do,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe.  She  thought  she 
understood.  He  had  come  to  his  last  penny  and 
wanted  to  borrow.  Perhaps  Anne  owed  him  money 
for  the  Russian  lessons.  Anyhow,  Mrs.  Crewe  was 
quite  prepared  to  give  him  one  of  the  two  sovereigns 
then  in  her  purse.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
starving  for  days. 

But  when  he  spoke  again  he  did  not  ask  for 
money. 

"  It  has  come ! "  he  said  in  a  deep,  tragic  voice. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mrs.  Crewe  inadequately.  She  still  felt 
puzzled,  but  the  sadness  of  his  eyes  began  to  affect  the 
kind,  dense  old  lady.  They  seemed  to  draw  her  with 
them  to  see  what  they  saw  —  a  ghastly  real  thing  that 
waited  for  him. 

"  I  go  back  to-night,"  he  continued,  in  the  same 
deep,  hopeless  voice.  "  I  leave  Liverpool  Street  at 
half-past  eight.  Don't  forget — Liverpool  Street  at 
half-past  eight !  " 

"  I  won't  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe.  "  Is  that  what 
you  want  me  to  tell  Anne  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  hope  she  will  be  in  time.  I  hope  she 
will  come." 

Mrs.  Crewe  started. 

"What?"  she  cried. 

"  I  want  your  daughter  to  go  with  me." 

"Go  — with  — you?     To  Russia?" 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        225 

"  Yes.  Tell  her  so.  I  think  she  will  come.  The 
danger  is  great  —  I  do  not  hide  it  —  but  the  glory  is 
great  too.  If  we  succeed,  the  world  will  tremble.  If 
we  fail  —  we  die."  And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  But  I  don't  want  Anne  to  die,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe. 
"  Besides,  I  can't  spare  her." 

"  Well  —  perhaps  we  should  not  die.  It  is  never 
certain.  Perhaps  we  should  go  to  Siberia  or  Sagha- 
lien.  There,  too,  there  is  a  great  work  to  do.  How 
can  you  grudge  one  life  when  it  may  sow  the  seeds  of 
freedom  in  a  thousand  minds?  Your  daughter  has 
great  gifts.  I  will  lead  her  where  she  can  employ 
them." 

"  I  think  she  employs  them  very  well  in  London," 
said  Mrs.  Crewe.  "  I  am  quite  satisfied,  and  I  believe 
she  is." 

"  How  can  you  be  satisfied  when  millions  of  your 
fellow-creatures  are  miserable  slaves?  I  want  to  give 
your  daughter  to  Russia.  Do  you  grudge  one  woman's 
life  to  a  whole  country?  " 

Mrs.  Crewe  did,  most  decidedly,  but  she  thought  it 
was  useless  to  say  so.  She  felt  a  little  afraid  of  Mr. 
Zagadin  this  afternoon.  The  shadow  of  his  sinister 
creed  had  fallen  on  his  face ;  his  eyes  were  restless  and 
terror-stricken. 

"  Even  if  Anne  wished  to  marry  you "  she 

began,  but  he  interrupted  her  quite  fiercely. 

"Who  speaks  of  marriage?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.    Crewe    stared    at    him    uncomprehendingly. 


226        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

"  You  don't  suppose  my  daughter  could  travel  about 
with  you  unless  she  was  your  wife,"  she  said ;  "  it  is 
not  the  English  custom." 

The  nervous  twitch  that  came  with  his  smile  was 
worse  than  ever  to-day,  and  Mrs.  Crewe  looked  past 
him  in  order  not  to  see  it. 

"  I  speak  of  martyrdom  and  you  speak  of  English 
custom,"  he  said.  "  Give  me  a  pen  and  paper.  I  will 
write  to  your  daughter." 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  at  great  speed  for  about 
five  minutes. 

"  Shall  you  start  to-night  —  in  any  case  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Crewe  when  he  got  up;  because,  of  course,  she 
had  been  making  up  her  mind  to  withhold  the  letter 
for  a  few  hours,  and  wondering  at  his  simplicity  in 
expecting  her  to  deliver  it. 

"  If  the  world  were  tottering  to  its  end,  I  should 
start,"  he  answered. 

Mrs.  Crewe  felt  very  glad  to  hear  it,  and  then  she 
began  to  wonder  what  the  poor  man's  fate  would  be, 
and  even  whether  he  would  ever  reach  his  journey's 
end. 

"  Do  take  care  of  yourself,"  she  said.  "  Have  you 
a  warm  wrap  for  the  journey  ?  " 

"  I  have  not.  Tell  your  daughter  to  bring  some. 
What  is  mine  is  hers." 

"  But  really,"  urged  Mrs.  Crewe,  "  you  must  not 
expect  my  daughter.  It  is  preposterous." 

"  I  do  expect  her,"  said  Mr.  Zagadin.     "  She  is  a 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        227 

noble  woman  —  formed  for  heroic  deeds  —  not  for 
the  petty,  comfortable  life  in  which  you  would  enslave 
her.  She  shall  be  a  Charlotte  Corday  and  kill  tyrants. 
A  man  may  face  anything,  even  what  I  face,  with  her 
by  his  side.  My  body  is  weak,  even  my  spirit  fails 
me.  I  look  to  her  for  courage." 

His  cough  suddenly  shook  him,  and  he  could  say 
no  more.  When  the  fit  abated  he  offered  Mrs.  Crewe 
his  hand,  but  he  did  not  offer  her  the  letter. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  soon  come  back  to  England," 
she  said,  with  a  wish  to  cheer  him  up  a  little. 

"  I  go  to  a  work  from  which  no  man  comes  back,"  he 
answered. 

"  But  it  is  horrible,"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  you  so  ill, 
too.  Can't  you  throw  the  whole  thing  up,  and  stay 
here,  and  let  your  friends  look  after  you  ?  Who  forces 
you  to  go  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  walked  towards 
the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"  You  have  not  left  the  letter,"  Mrs.  Crewe  called 
after  him. 

"  I  shall  leave  it  with  the  hall-porter,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Crewe  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  It  was 
nearly  half-past  six  now,  and  Anne  might  return  at  any 
moment.  What  would  she  do?  Would  she  say  the 
danger  was  visionary,  and  Mr.  Zagadin's  need  of  her 
real?  Would  she  say  she  could  keep  herself  out  of 


228        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

danger,  and  him,  too  ?  Mrs.  Crewe  could  not  feel  sure. 
There  is  no  delusion  too  silly  for  a  woman  inclined  to 
throw  herself  away.  The  deeper  the  precipice  the  more 
irresistible  the  fascination. 

Mrs.  Crewe  put  on  her  outdoor  things  and  went 
downstairs.  She  peeped  into  the  porter's  office,  and 
saw  Mr.  Zagadin's  letter  lying  on  the  table.  The  porter 
was  not  there.  If  he  had  been  she  could  have  easily 
given  him  a  sixpence,  and  asked  him  to  go  upstairs  and 
make  sure  that  she  had  shut  the  door  of  the  flat.  But 
fortune  favoured  her,  and  she  was  not  driven  to  prac- 
tise this  deception.  She  stepped  across  the  threshold 
and  snatched  the  letter,  and  fled  into  the  street.  Her 
heart  beat,  and  her  knees  trembled,  and  she  knew  what 
it  means  to  see  suspicion  in  every  eye,  and  to  hear  pur- 
suit in  every  footstep.  But  she  was  quite  resolved  to 
wander  about  for  two  hours.  When  you  have  nowhere 
to  go,  and  nothing  to  do,  and  are  not  inclined  to  look 
about  you,  two  hours  in  the  London  streets  will  pass 
like  time  in  prison.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Crewe  that  all 
the  clocks  had  stopped,  and  that  every  road  had  shrunk 
in  length.  She  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  baker's 
shop  eating  buns  she  did  not  want;  she  went  a  little 
journey  by  the  Underground;  she  tried  the  inside  of  a 
bus,  and  the  outside  of  a  tram.  London  had  certainly 
dwindled  that  night.  She  could  not  get  far  enough 
away.  But  she  would  not  go  back  to  St.  George's  Man- 
sions until  half-past  eight. 

As  she  slowly  mounted  the  four  flights  of  steps  to 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        229 

Anne's  flat,  she  took  the  letter  out  of  her  pocket  an4 
held  it  ready  in  her  hand.  Anne  opened  the  door. 

"  Mother !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  been  very  un- 
easy about  you.  Where  have  you  been  ?  And  Tomp- 
kins  is  in  a  state  about  a  letter  he  says  Mr.  Zagadin 
left  with  him  for  me.  Is  that  in  your  hand?  How 
did  you  get  it?  " 

"  I  stole  it,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe,  giving  it  to  her 
daughter. 

Anne  looked  anxiously  at  her  mother,  who  was  hag- 
gard with  fatigue  and  anxiety.  She  led  her  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  then  opened  Mr.  Zagadin's  letter. 

"  Liverpool  Street,  at  half-past  eight,"  she  said,  and 
Mrs.  Crewe  saw  her  glance  at  the  clock ;  "  and  he  wants 
me  to  go  with  him  to  Russia.  But  it  is  half-past  eight 
now !  Oh,  mother,  what  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  He  wanted  you  to  be  a  martyr,  Anne,"  said  Mrs. 
Crewe,  almost  tearfully.  "  I  really  could  not  allow  it. 
Besides,  he  doesn't  even  ask  you  to  marry  him,  does 
he?" 

"  It  comes  to  the  same  thing,"  said  Anne,  glancing 
distractedly  at  the  clock  again.  "  Of  course,  a  man  of 
Mr.  Zagadin's  opinions  doesn't  think  anything  of  a 
church  ceremony." 

"  Then  we  certainly  cannot  think  of  him  as  a  member 
of  the  family,"  said  Mrs.  Crewe. 

Anne  sat  down,  and  read  her  letter  again. 

"  No  one  needs  me  as  he  does,"  she  said,  with  both 
indecision  and  anguish  in  her  tone.  "  Poor  fellow !  " 


230 

"  Oh,  Anne,"  exclaimed  her  mother,  "  surely  you 
would  not  have  gone !  It  would  have  broken  my  heart." 

"  But  I  might  have  wished  him  good-bye  —  might 
have  taken  him  things  for  the  journey.  He  is  as  un- 
practical and  as  unfit  to  take  care  of  himself  as  a  child. 
You  ought  not  to  have  withheld  his  letter,  mother. 
Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  I  really  don't  know  where  I  have  been,"  said  Mrs. 
Crewe ;  "  all  over  London,  I  think.  I  can't  understand 
you,  Anne.  Surely  you  don't  want  to  turn  your  back 
on  your  work  and  your  people  to  go  and  blow  up  poor 
harmless  Russians  with  dynamite !  He  calls  it  martyr- 
dom ;  but  you  haven't  been  to  Siberia  and  lost  your 
senses." 

"  Oh !  I  never  think  of  that  side  of  him,"  interrupted 
Anne  rather  impatiently.  "  I  think  of  his  cleverness 
—  and  his  cough.  I  daresay  I  could  have  kept  myself 
out  of  harm's  way,  and  him  too." 

"  But  in  his  own  country  he  is  considered  a  criminal. 
If  they  catch  him  they'll  put  him  in  prison.  No  doubt, 
if  he  had  a  wife  they'd  imprison  her  too,  and  send  her 
to  Siberia.  They're  not  very  particular  out  there." 

"  Well  —  it  is  all  over,"  said  Anne  after  a  long 
pause. 

"But  if  he  writes  —  if  he  asks  you  to  join  him?" 

"  He  says  in  his  letter  he  won't  do  that." 

"  But  if  he  did  —  you  would  not  go  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Anne ;  "  but  I  wish  I  had  bid- 
den him  good-bye." 


ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST        231 

For  a  long  time  neither  mother  nor  child  spoke 
again,  and  they  both  thought  of  Mr.  Zagadin  speeding; 
towards  Harwich,  ill  and  disappointed,  and  very  poor. 

"  I  wish  I  had  given  him  my  railway  rug,"  said  Mrs. 
Crewe. 

"  I  shall  have  to  write  and  tell  him  I  didn't  get  his 
letter  till  it  was  too  late,"  said  Anne.  "  I  needn't  say 
how  it  happened." 

"  I've  no  doubt  he  thinks  us  very  unkind,"  said  Mrs. 
Crewe,  whose  eyes  looked  tearful.  "  I  hope  it  isn't 
wrong  to  be  so  fond  of  an  Anarchist." 

But  Mrs.  Crewe  never  repented  the  theft  of  the  let- 
ter ;  and  when  she  told  Alice  about  it,  the  latter  seemed 
to  think  her  mother  had  acted  as  rightly  as  any  one 
does  who  saves  a  fellow-creature  from  unnecessary 
suicide. 

"  There  is  no  knowing,"  she  said ;  "  Anne  might 
have  gone  out  of  sheer  pity." 

A  month  later  Mrs.  Crewe  heard  from  Anne  that 
poor  Mr.  Zagadin  had  neither  done  the  awful  deeds 
nor  suffered  the  awful  vengeance  he  expected,  because 
he  had  been  arrested  the  moment  he  had  set  foot  on 
Russian  soil.  In  prison,  he  fell  ill  of  pneumonia,  and 
died  within  the  week.  The  news  made  Mrs.  Crewe 
feel  quite  conscience-stricken.  If  she  had  given  him 
her  railway  rug  perhaps  he  could  have  taken  it  to 
prison  with  him  and  kept  warm.  Even  his  death  did 
not  make  her  wish  for  a  moment  that  she  had  given 
him  Anne. 


232        ANNE   AND   THE   ANARCHIST 

Later  still  she  told  the  story  to  one  or  two  of  her 
Burnside  friends,  and  they  also  said  she  had  acted 
wisely,  though  they  added  that  it  seemed  a  pity  Anne 
should  die  an  old  maid.  Mrs.  Crewe  replied  that  she 
used  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  but  that  since  her  visit 
to  London  she  considered  her  elder  daughter's  single 
life  a  greater  success  in  every  way  than  her  younger 
daughter's  married  one. 

Nevertheless  it  gave  her  great  pleasure  to  tell  them, 
about  a  year  after  Mr.  Zagadin's  death,  that  Anne  was 
going  to  marry  her  editor,  and  would  give  up  her  flat 
for  a  house  in  Chelsea  Square. 

"  I  hope  he  is  a  Conservative  editor,"  said  Burnside, 
"  then  we  will  try  to  forget  that  Anne  nearly  ran  off 
with  an  Anarchist." 


"THE   LAST    STRAW" 


Miss  BRUNTON  often  said  that  she  had  no  patience 
with  women  who  allowed  other  people  to  put  upon 
them.  A  woman,  she  protested,  should  be  a  person  of 
sense  and  spirit,  not  a  poor,  yielding  reed  swayed  by 
every  breeze.  Her  sister,  Mrs.  Simpson,  used  to  take 
a  remark  of  this  kind  to  herself,  and  retort  that  a 
woman  who  had  only  herself  to  think  of  could  easily 
keep  up  her  courage.  A  spinster  earning  a  comfortable 
livelihood  did  not  know  how  hardly  life  pressed  on  the 
mother  of  a  family.  Miss  Brunton  never  argued  the 
point,  because  she  knew  that  you  might  as  well  try  to 
write  on  water  as  on  Aggy's  mind.  But  her  eyes  had  a 
twinkle  in  them  when  her  sister  compared  their  lots  to 
her  own  disadvantage.  She  knew  who  was  likely  to 
wear  out  first. 

For  many  years  Miss  Brunton  had  been  an  assistant 
mistress  in  the  Blackport  High  School,  which  is  a  large 
and  flourishing  concern.  Before  coming  to  Blackport 
she  had  languished  as  a  governess  in  private  families, 
and  every  one  considered  that  she  greatly  improved  her 
position  by  getting  a  post  in  a  High  School.  Besides, 
Aggy  Brunton  had  married  Professor  Simpson  of 

233 


234  "THE   LAST    STRAW" 

Blackport  College,  and  therefore  lived  in  Blackport, 
and  would  be  able  to  befriend  her  sister  in  many  ways. 

Miss  Brunton  was  very  glad  to  go  and  live  near 
Aggy,  but  her  reasons  were  not  exactly  those  put  for- 
ward by  her  friends  when  they  congratulated  her. 
Aggy  had  never  been  able  to  look  after  herself,  or 
her  husband,  or  her  children;  and  Miss  Brunton 
thought  it  would  be  easier  to  do  her  own  work  and 
lend  her  sister  a  helping  hand  if  the  work  and  the 
sister  were  near  neighbours.  At  first  she  lived  in 
Professor  Simpson's  house,  and  as  long  as  this  ar- 
rangement lasted  she  certainly  found  plenty  to  do 
there.  A  child  was  born  every  year  to  parents  who 
were  unthrifty,  delicate,  and  poor.  How  Miss  Brun- 
ton had  the  strength  and  the  patience  to  be  schoolmis- 
tress, nurse,  and  housekeeper  day  by  day  no  one  could 
understand.  She  often  owned  that  she  felt  tired; 
sometimes  her  spirits  flagged.  But  she  would  soon 
whip  them  up  again.  Melancholy,  like  other  luxuries, 
was  not  for  her.  Aggy  might  sit  by  the  fire  and  weep 
while  the  world  ran  away ;  but  her  sister  felt  the  weight 
of  the  world  on  her  shoulders,  and  meant  to  support  it 
or  die. 

However,  soon  after  the  fifth  child  arrived,  Miss 
Brunton  had  to  turn  out  because,  unless  she  slept  in 
a  cupboard,  the  house  would  no  longer  hold  her.  She 
took  small  cheap  lodgings  close  by,  and  Aggy  said  it 
would  be  nearly  the  same  thing  as  having  Susan  with 
them ;  which  was  quite  true  as  far  as  Aggy  was  con- 


"THE   LAST   STRAW"  235 

cerned.  Her  sister  found  the  new  arrangement  rather 
more  tiring  than  the  old  one. 

Nevertheless  Miss  Brunton  greatly  enjoyed  the 
snatches  of  solitude  and  leisure  that  were  left  to  her. 
She  had  never  before  had  a  sitting-room  of  her  own, 
or  any  chance  of  receiving  her  friends.  Wherever  she 
lived  she  made  friends.  That  faculty  of  lending  a 
helping  hand  did  not  exhaust  itself  on  her  sister,  and 
it  is  one  that  usually  wins  goodwill.  Besides  she  acted 
as  a  tonic  on  some  of  the  nervous,  overworked  women 
who  made  the  school  wheels  go  round.  Not  all  of  them 
liked  her,  but  those  who  did  swore  by  her,  clove  to  her, 
and  when  fate  took  them  from  her,  would  go  far  and 
wide  to  see  her  again. 

But  Miss  Brunton  never  had  much  time  to  give  her 
friends.  She  was  always  meaning  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf  and  let  Aggy  shift  for  herself,  and  she  was  always 
finding  that  the  possible  moment  had  not  arrived.  If 
Aggy  had  been  robust  and  very  well-to-do,  Miss  Brun- 
ton might  have  left  her  sister  to  fight  her  own  battles. 
But  Professor  Simpson  had  a  limited  income,  and  his 
children  were  sickly,  and  his  wife  was  both  sickly  and 
incompetent.  When  Aggy  sent  in  haste  for  her  sister  it 
was  always  because  she  had  a  headache,  or  a  damaged 
child,  or  no  nurse,  or  no  cook;  and  when  Miss  Brun- 
ton reached  the  house  she  often  found  the  family  in 
real  difficulties.  It  is  true  that  Aggy  usually  brought 
them  on  herself,  but  there  they  were. 

Of  course,  all  married  women  know  that  a  single 


236  "THE   LAST   STRAW" 

woman  never  has  anything  to  do.  Married  women 
without  children  count  as  single  in  this  respect.  A 
spinster  who  maintains  herself  is  a  person  of  leisure 
compared  with  a  rich  man's  wife  who  has  a  baby  in 
the  nursery.  This  is  a  great  mystery,  but  every  mother 
understands  it.  Mrs.  Simpson  used  to  talk  with  envy 
of  her  sister's  tranquil  life  and  even  of  her  circum- 
stances, which  she  said  were  really  easier  than  her 
own.  At  any  rate  her  husband  and  she  could  not 
afford  a  holiday  in  Switzerland,  and  when  they 
wanted  a  new  book  they  looked  for  it  on  Miss  Brun- 
ton's  table. 

"  My  month  in  Switzerland  has  cost  me  eighteen 
pounds,"  said  Miss  Brunton.  "  I  wonder  how  much 
you  have  spent  at  Filey." 

"  A  great  deal  more  than  we  meant  to.  We  always 
do,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  with  a  sigh.  She  was  a  thin 
little  woman  with  a  drab  skin  and  colourless  scanty 
hair.  "  Do  you  spend  all  you  make  ?  "  she  continued. 
"  Do  you  never  think  of  providing  for  your  old  age  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Miss  Brunton  briskly.  "  Who 
would  if  I  did  not,  pray?  " 

Mrs.  Simpson's  friends  were  under  the  impression 
that  she  suffered  a  good  deal  from  her  sister's  quick 
temper.  She  looked  slightly  injured  now  and  said  — 

"  It  must  be  so  easy  for  you  to  save,  living  in  these 
two  little  rooms,  and  only  yourself  to  think  of.  Have 
you  put  by  much  ?  " 

"  About  two  hundred  pounds." 


"THE   LAST   STRAW"  237 

A  weaker  woman  might  have  tried  to  conceal  this 
fact,  but  Miss  Brunton  felt  quite  sure  that  she  could 
take  care  of  herself  and  her  money. 

Aggy's  prominent  light  eyes  opened  widely. 

"  Two  hundred  pounds !  I  wish  I  had  a  quarter 
of  it." 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,  Aggy,"  said  Miss  Brunton 
sharply.  "  If  I  was  knocked  out  of  my  work  to-mor- 
row I  should  have  about  eight  pounds  a  year  to 
live  on." 

"  Archibald  says  he  can't  afford  to  buy  me  a  new 
winter  jacket,"  continued  Aggy.  "  I  can't  get  my 
sleeves  into  my  old  one.  I  wish  you  would  lend  me  a 
little  money,  Susan." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Susan  at  once. 

The  Simpsons  ought  not  to  have  been  for  ever  short 
of  money.  Archibald  had  three  hundred  a  year  of 
his  own,  and  his  professorship  brought  him  an  income 
of  at  least  five  hundred.  Most  of  his  colleagues  con- 
sidered him  a  man  of  means.  He  certainly  might  have 
made  two  ends  meet  in  Blackport,  where  folks  do  their 
washing  at  home,  and  get  a  respectable  little  house  for 
fifty  pounds  a  year.  The  Simpsons  were  not  even  in 
the  uncomfortable  position  of  knowing  a  great  many 
people  much  richer  than  themselves.  The  staff  of 
Blackport  College  supplied  them  with  friends  —  men 
who  professed  something  or  lectured  on  something,  and 
earned  very  little  by  it.  The  women-folk  connected 
with  such  men  are  not  fine  birds ;  they  have  no  money 


238  "THE   LAST    STRAW" 

for  feathers.  Mrs.  Simpson  could  have  been  as  well 
dressed  as  her  acquaintances  without  any  undue  strain 
on  her  husband's  purse. 

But  the  skilful  management  of  an  income  is  really 
more  important  than  its  figure.  Mrs.  Simpson  mud- 
dled away  her  money  as  she  muddled  away  her  time 
and  her  health ;  and  of  course  her  husband  and  children 
suffered  for  her  sins.  She  was  one  of  those  incompe- 
tent, helpless  creatures  who  at  eighteen  possess  a  pretty 
complexion  and  an  amiable,  vacant  smile.  They  al- 
ways marry  and  have  families,  and  make  every  one  be- 
longing to  them  uncomfortable,  and  why  men  choose 
them  for  wives  and  mothers  men  alone  can  say.  Poor 
Professor  Simpson  had  twelve  years  in  which  to  repent 
of  his  folly,  and  then,  in  an  epidemic  of  influenza,  he 
went  out  of  the  game.  It  was  after  his  death  that  Miss 
Brunton's  real  troubles  began. 

In  future  Aggy  and  her  five  children  would  have  to 
live  on  three  hundred  a  year,  and  she  assured  her  sister 
it  could  not  be  done.  Susan  said,  "  Stuff  and  non- 
sense !  it  must  be  done."  It  was  preposterous  to  talk ; 
as  if  they  had  any  alternative !  How  did  Aggy  propose 
to  spend  more  than  her  income  without  getting  into 
debt  ?  Luckily,  by  the  terms  of  her  husband's  will,  she 
could  not  touch  the  capital.  Aggy  reminded  her  sister 
that  twenty  years  ago  she  had  taken  a  prize  at  school 
for  flower-painting.  Why  should  she  not  recall  that 
lost  art  and  give  lessons  in  it  to  the  young  ladies  of 
Black-port  ?  Miss  Brunton  said  it  would  be  much  bet- 


"THE    LAST    STRAW"  239 

ter  for  her  sister  to  recall  the  little  she  knew  about 
cooking  and  manage  her  house  and  children  with  the 
help  of  one  servant. 

"  Susan  means  well,"  said  Aggy  to  her  friends ;  "  but 
of  course  she  does  not  know  what  it  is  to  have  children 
and  feel  anxious  to  provide  for  them.  I  must  be  both 
father  and  mother  to  my  darlings  now,  and  I  am  not 
strong.  Susan  always  had  the  constitution  of  a  horse. 
She  ought  to  have  been  a  man." 

"  Yes,"  said  her  friends ;  "  she  would  have  made  a 
very  good  man." 

Professor  Simpson  died  just  before  Christmas,  so 
Miss  Brunton  was  able  to  spend  the  vacation  in  helping 
Aggy  to  recover  and  remove.  Aggy's  grief  was  very 
harrowing  to  those  about  her ;  she  gave  it  such  full  ex- 
pression. Even  on  the  day  of  the  funeral  Miss  Brun- 
ton felt  inclined  to  shake  her  because  she  would  howl 
over  the  baby  in  his  cradle  directly  he  had  been  got  to 
sleep.  She  wept  at  every  meal  for  weeks,  because  the 
sight  of  Susan  in  dear  Archibald's  chair  made  her 
miserable,  and  she  wept  at  the  bare  mention  of  re- 
trenchment, because  she  said  her  husband  had  always 
wished  her  to  have  everything  she  wanted.  She  seemed 
to  blame  her  sister  for  supposing  that  three  hundred 
a  year  would  not  go  as  far  as  eight. 

With  great  difficulty  Miss  Brunton  managed  to  get 
the  Simpsons  into  a  house  they  could  reasonably  af- 
ford :  and  then  the  day  soon  came  when  she  confessed 
to  her  friends  that  she  meant  to  live  with  her  sister 


240  'THE   LAST   STRAW" 

again.  None  of  them  asked  why.  They  understood 
that  Aggy  would  get  on  a  little  better  with  most  of 
Susan's  income  added  to  her  own. 

Perhaps  Aggy  did  get  on  a  little  better  than  if 
Susan  had  led  her  own  life  and  left  her  sister  to  shift 
for  herself.  It  never  occurred  to  Miss  Brunton  that 
she  had  any  choice  in  the  matter  for  longer  than  an 
angry  moment.  She  regarded  her  near  relatives  much 
as  we  regard  our  own  bodies.  We  regret  their  imper- 
fections, but  we  do  not  try  in  this  world  to  get  away 
from  them. 

The  new  conditions  would  have  been  more  bearable 
if  Miss  Brunton  could  have  held  the  reins  —  managed 
the  housekeeping  and  the  family  expenditure,  as  well 
as  her  work  at  school.  But  of  course  Aggy  stood  on 
her  dignity  and  resented  both  advice  and  interference. 
She  attributed  all  her  troubles  to  fate,  and  not  to  her 
own  want  of  sense  and  self-control.  One  afternoon 
Miss  Brunton  came  back  from  school  and  found  Oscar, 
a  boy  of  five,  badly  scalded. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  pulled  the  kitchen  kettle  over  himself,"  ex- 
plained Aggy.  "  Sarah  was  down  in  the  wash-house  at 
the  time." 

"  But  where  were  you  ?  " 

"  Paying  calls." 

"  Why  do  you  do  that  on  a  washing-day  when  Sarah 
cannot  possibly  look  after  the  children  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  give  up  my   friends  and  my  position, 


"THE    LAST    STRAW"  241 

Susan.  I  wish  to  keep  both  for  my  family.  We  must 
get  a  second  servant." 

"  We  cannot  afford  it." 

"  We  must.  It  is  very  easy  for  you  to  talk  —  away 
all  day  in  that  big  cheerful  school,  sitting  on  a  platform 
and  looking  at  a  lot  of  well-behaved  girls  —  you  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  spend  the  morning  with  five  children 
as  naughty  as  mine." 

When  night  came  Aggy  asked  her  sister  to  sit  up 
with  Oscar. 

"  A  sleepless  night  never  seems  to  hurt  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  quite  exhausted  with  the  shock  of  finding 
him  scalded." 

"  I  will  take  him  this  night,  but  not  again  to-mor- 
row," said  Miss  Brunton ;  "  I  can't  teach  when  I  am 
dead  tired.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  the  school." 

"Of  course  I  shall  come  in  now  and  then." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Miss  Brunton,  "  I  shall  lock 
the  door." 

Aggy  took  offence  at  her  sister's  manner,  but  she, 
knew  her  to  be  a  person  of  her  word,  so  she  went  to 
bed  and  slept  soundly.  The  next  night  Oscar  slept  and 
did  not  disturb  his  mother. 

The  fear  of  letting  the  wear  and  tear  of  her  home 
life  affect  her  work  at  school  acted  like  a  spur  on  Miss 
Brunton  ;  kept  her  going  when  she  might  have  flagged, 
and  even  drove  her  to  resist  encroachment.  She  never 
allowed  any  one  to  make  her  unpunctual,  and  when 
Easter  came  she  set  off  for  a  short  holiday,  although 


242  'THE   LAST   STRAW" 

Mrs.  Simpson  showed  that  she  thought  it  a  selfish  thing 
to  do.  In  the  end  she  wished  she  had  not  spent  ten 
shillings  on  the  journey,  because,  before  she  had  been 
away  forty-eight  hours,  she  received  a  telegram  to  say 
that  Rosie  had  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  Of  course, 
Rosie's  aunt  had  to  pack  her  trunks  and  return  post 
haste  to  Blackport. 

"  I  can't  refuse  to  go  when  they  are  in  trouble,"  she 
said  to  her  indignant  holiday  companion.  "  Aggy's 
troubles  are  of  her  own  making,  but  they  are  terribly 
real.  She  took  this  child  with  her  on  the  top  of  a  tram 
last  week  in  that  bitter  east  wind.  I  told  her  it  was 
folly,  and  she  asked  me  what  I  knew  about  children." 

When  Miss  Brunton  got  back  to  Blackport  she  found 
Rosie  much  better.  In  fact,  the  doctor  had  only  feared 
inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and  had  managed  to  keep 
it  off. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  sent  for  me,"  said  Miss 
Brunton  to  her  sister.  "  The  child  has  not  been  se- 
riously ill." 

She  wished  afterwards  that  she  had  held  her  peace, 
because  her  rebuke  sent  Aggy  into  hysterics.  Mrs. 
Simpson  cried  and  laughed,  and  said  she  was  worn  out 
with  nursing,  and  vowed  she  had  neither  asked  nor  ex- 
pected her  sister  to  come.  She  always  kept  her  troubles 
to  herself,  and  never  again  would  she  fly  to  Susan  for 
sympathy  in  a  sorrowful  hour.  Then  she  took  a  sleep- 
ing draught  and  went  to  bed,  while  Susan  looked  after 
Rosie  and  the  other  children. 


'THE   LAST    STRAW"  243 

The  proper  mission  of  women  is,  of  course,  to  weave 
roses  into  the  tangled  threads  of  manly  lives.  But  there 
are  some  women  who  never  get  a  chance  of  performing 
the  pretty  task  for  which  Nature,  the  poet  says,  de- 
signed them.  On  the  contrary,  their  hands  have  to 
make  the  best  of  tangles  just  as  hard  and  just  as  tiring 
as  those  that  engage  the  attention  of  their  masculine 
neighbours.  Miss  Brunton  had  succeeded  to  her 
brother-in-law's  anxieties,  but  not  to  his  position  of 
authority  in  the  house  or  to  his  income.  Of  course, 
you  may  say  that  the  remedy  lay  in  her  own  hands. 
She  had  only  to  harden  her  heart.  But  that  is  exactly 
what  some  people  cannot  do.  Miss  Brunton  loved  her 
nephews  and  nieces.  They  put  their  grimy  little  arms' 
round  her  neck  and  came  to  her  for  help  in  their 
troubles.  She  wore  herself  out  over  the  effort  to  keep 
them  properly  fed  and  clothed.  She  tried  to  make  her 
sister  put  by  a  little  money  towards  their  education. 
But  in  this  she  never  succeeded,  and  at  the  end  of  two 
years  her  own  savings  had  diminished.  The  latest 
drain  on  her  resources  had  been  caused  by  a  fire  in  the 
nursery.  When  she  spoke  of  claiming  restitution  from 
the  insurance  company,  Aggy  said  that  the  premium 
had  not  been  paid  since  her  husband's  death.  She  had 
always  had  other  things  to  do  with  her  money.  After 
this  Miss  Brunton  felt  that  no  discovery  of  extrava- 
gance or  folly  would  be  surprising.  She  wondered 
:whether  they  would  ever  find  themselves  without  a 
roof  to  their  heads. 


244  "THE   LAST    STRAW" 

Even  a  tough  constitution  cannot  stand  incessant 
work  and  worry  for  very  long.  Professor  Simpson  had 
been  dead  for  about  two  and  a  half  years  when  Miss 
Brunton  found  that  she  must  either  rest  or  break  down. 
So  she  told  Aggy  that  she  meant  to  spend  the  summer 
vacation  in  Switzerland. 

"  You  are  lucky,"  said  Aggy.  "  Always  off  some- 
where !  " 

Miss  Brunton  had  not  been  out  of  Blackport  since 
last  summer,  when  she  had  taken  the  Simpsons  to  the 
Isle  of  Man,  and  nursed  them  through  the  measles 
there.  She  mentioned  this  fact  to  Aggy,  but  Aggy  only 
wriggled  away  from  it,  and  observed  that  the  children 
and  she  would  have  to  content  themselves  with  Black- 
pool. Miss  Brunton  felt  positive  that  her  sister  could 
not  afford  to  go  anywhere  at  all,  but  she  gave  great 
offence  by  saying  so.  Aggy  asked  how  she  could 
grudge  the  poor  delicate  children  a  fortnight  at  the 
seaside,  when  she  was  planning  an  expensive  holiday 
on  the  Continent  for  herself. 

Mrs.  Simpson  did  not  realise  that  her  sister  was  near 
a  collapse.  All  her  life  she  had  leaned  on  Susan,  taken 
her  strength  for  granted,  reckoned  she  had  no  troubles 
because  she  did  not  parade  them.  She  had  not  the 
sense  or  the  sympathy  to  see  that  even  to  the  strong 
natures  there  come  moments  of  discouragement. 

Aggy  went  to  Blackpool  early  in  the  summer,  about 
a  month  before  the  end  of  the  term.  Miss  Brunton 
begged  her  to  go  later,  and  not  take  the  elder  children 


"THE    LAST    STRAW"  245 

away  from  school,  but  Mrs.  Simpson  observed  that  she 
had  to  study  economy.  Lodgings  were  cheap  in  June. 

"  You  have  bought  a  great  many  new  clothes,"  said 
Susan,  as  she  helped  to  pack.  "  I  hope  they  are  paid 
for !  " 

"  They  are,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  shortly. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  persisted  Susan.  "  Last 
month  you  said  you  could  not  pay  your  bills  until  this 
month's  cheque  had  come,  and  now  you  have  settled 
with  the  tradespeople  and  replenished  the  family  ward- 
robe. Have  you  enough  in  your  purse  for  your  railway 
fares?  And  how  are  you  going  to  pay  your  expenses 
at  Blackpool  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  poke  and  pry  into  my  affairs !  "  said 
Aggy  impatiently.  "  The  children  would  die  without 
a  change  of  air,  and  we  can't  go  about  like  Red  Indians, 
in  ragged  blankets." 

Miss  Brunton  did  not  feel  reassured,  but  she  could 
do  nothing  to  stop  the  expedition.  For  a  day  or  two 
she  enjoyed  the  silent,  empty  house,  and  then  she  sud- 
denly began  to  hate  it.  The  deserted  rooms  oppressed 
her,  the  lonely  meals  choked  her.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  failed  to  outstep  the  blue  devils  always 
at  her  heels.  She  began  to  dwell  on  the  future  —  and 
Heaven  help  the  woman  without  mate  or  money  who 
does  that !  She  began  to  think  that  she  could  not  af- 
ford the  journey  to  Switzerland.  It  would  make  a  hole 
in  the  hundred  pounds  left  of  her  savings  —  the  only 
shield  in  case  of  emergency  between  her  and  destitu- 


246  "THE   LAST    STRAW" 

tion.  Then  a  solemn  word  of  warning  from  the  great 
doctor  she  had  consulted  left  her  no  choice.  She  prom- 
ised him  to  go.  After  that  she  felt  more  cheerful,  and 
made  her  plans.  She  was  to  start  the  very  day  school 
closed,  soon  after  the  Simpsons  came  back  from  Black- 
pool. 

The  children  looked  rosy  and  sunburnt,  but  Aggy 
looked  worried.  Perhaps  if  Miss  Brunton  had  been 
as  wide  awake  as  usual,  she  would  have  guessed  that 
her  sister  had  something  on  her  mind.  But  just  at  the 
end  of  term  a  week  of  great  heat  tried  her  to  the  ut- 
most, and  she  had  no  strength  or  vision  for  any  one's 
business  but  her  own. 

At  last  speech-day  arrived,  and  when  the  necessary 
festivities  came  to  an  end  Miss  Brunton  walked  home 
numb  and  dull  with  weariness.  She  felt  too  tired  to 
travel,  too  tired  to  live.  The  little  street  seemed  to  pant 
beneath  the  sweltering  sun ;  every  window  was  set  open 
and  some  front  doors  were  ajar.  It  was  quieter  than 
usual,  as  if  the  heat  had  made  the  inmates  idle  and 
drowsy.  But  when  Miss  Brunton  approached  her  sis- 
ter's house,  alarming  and  familiar  sounds  reached  her 
from  one  of  the  open  upper  windows  —  the  uncon- 
trolled sobs  of  a  woman  nearly  in  hysterics.  For  a 
moment  Miss  Brunton  paused,  inclined  to  run  away. 
But  habit  proved  too  strong  for  her;  she  could  not 
turn  her  back  on  a  difficulty.  She  opened  the  door 
with  her  latchkey,  and  walked  upstairs  and  into  the 
front  bedroom.  There  lay  Aggy,  crying,  and  laugh- 


"THE   LAST    STRAW"  247 

ing,  and  raving  incoherently,  while  a  frightened  maid- 
servant stood  near  with  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts. 
Miss  Brunton  sent  the  girl  out  of  the  room,  locked 
the  door,  and  sat  down.  She  knew  that  Aggy's 
hysterics  soon  came  to  an  end  if  no  one  tried  to  coax 
her  out  of  them.  In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Simpson  got 
off  the  bed  and  came  to  the  window  where  her  sister 
had  taken  a  chair. 

"  Good-bye !  "  she  said  with  a  sob. 

Miss  Brunton  did  not  answer. 

Aggy  next  went  to  her  wardrobe  and  put  on  a 
hat  and  cloak.  When  she  stood  at  the  glass  Miss 
Brunton  went  to  the  door  and  put  the  key  in  her 
pocket.  Then  she  sat  down  again.  She  was  too  tired 
to  talk,  and  she  knew  she  would  soon  hear  all  about 
it.  When  Aggy  found  the  door  locked  she  pulled  it 
noisily  to  and  fro,  and  beat  on  it  with  her  fists,  and 
sobbed  to  her  sister  to  come  and  open  it  at  once.  So 
Miss  Brunton  seized  her  wrists,  and  dragged  her  back 
to  the  window  and  made  her  sit  down.  The  tussle  was 
exhausting,  but  successful. 

"  Let  me  go,"  howled  Aggy ;  "  I  want  to  drown 
myself." 

"  Sit  still  and  don't  behave  like  an  idiot,"  said  Miss 
Brunton.  "  The  neighbours  will  hear  you  if  you 
make  such  a  row." 

"  I  don't  care  who  hears  me!  I  shall  be  dead  in  an 
hour,  and  then  you'll  be  sorry.  Give  me  the  key  this 
moment,  Susan ! " 


248  "THE   LAST    STRAW" 

Miss  Brunton  sat  still  and  waited  until  her  sister 
sulkily  left  off  crying ;  then  she  said  — 

"  I  want  my  tea,  Aggy.  Are  you  going  to  tell  me 
what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should !  You  can't  do  any- 
thing !  Read  that !  " 

Miss  Brunton  took  the  crumpled  letter  her  sister 
held  out,  and  as  she  read  it  her  face  turned  wan  and 
old.  The  letter  said  that  unless  Mrs.  Simpson  paid  the 
hundred  and  forty  pounds  she  had  borrowed  within 
forty-eight  hours,  the  usual  proceedings  would  be 
taken.  In  due  course  she  must  expect  her  furniture 
to  be  seized  and  sold  in  discharge  of  the  debt. 

"  You  have  been  borrowing  money,"  said  Miss 
Brunton.  She  showed  no  surprise,  and  her  manner 
was  heavy  and  hopeless  rather  than  angry.  Yet  Aggy 
felt  afraid. 

"  I  had  to,"  she  protested.  "  I  can't  let  my  children 
starve!  It  is  impossible  for  an  unmarried  woman  to 
understand  what  a  mother " 

Miss  Brunton  put  up  her  hand  to  stem  the  torrent 
of  words. 

"  Who  writes  ?  Where  did  you  get  the  money  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  saw  an  advertisement  in  the  Herald.  His  letters 
were  most  considerate  at  first.  He  said  he  did  it  to 
help  people  —  especially  ladies  —  and  that  he  wanted 
no  security.  And  now  he  is  going  to  turn  us  into  the 
streets ;  and  the  trustees  will  let  him  do  it." 


"THE   LAST   STRAW"  249 

"How  much  do  you  owe?" 

Miss  Brunton  looked  at  the  letter  as  she  asked  the 
question,  and  noted  again  that  a  hundred  and  forty 
pounds  was  the  sum  mentioned  there. 

"  I  had  a  hundred  pounds  at  Christmas,"  said  Aggy, 
beginning  to  sob  again,  and  speaking  with  angry  re- 
sentment ;  "  I  have  paid  him  about  twenty  pounds  as 
interest  on  it;  and  just  before  I  went  to  Blackpool  I 
had  another  forty.  I  couldn't  help  it!  You  needn't 
look  at  me  like  that,  Susan !  Give  me  the  letter,  and 
leave  me  to  manage  my  own  affairs.  Only,  before  you 
start  for  Switzerland,  tell  me  where  I  am  to  send 
your  things.  I  suppose  they  won't  be  sold  up  with 
mine!  " 

Miss  Brunton  got  up. 

"  I  must  pay  it,"  she  said.  "  I  have  the  cheque 
for  my  salary  in  my  pocket  and  a  hundred  pounds  at 
the  bank.  You  can't  be  left  in  a  house  without  fur- 
niture. Besides  —  the  disgrace " 

Miss  Brunton  broke  off  abruptly,  and  with  a  ner- 
vous twitch  of  her  lips.  Aggy  cried,  and  said  that  in 
future  she  would  let  all  the  children  die  rather  than 
borrow  money  to  keep  them  alive.  She  followed  her 
sister  downstairs  and  poured  out  two  cups  of  tea. 

"  I  will  go  and  see  Mr.  Taylor  at  once,"  said  Miss 
Brunton  when  she  had  drunk  the  tea  but  not  eaten 
anything  with  it.  She  found  that  food  choked  her. 
"  He  must  manage  this  business  for  us  or  we  may  be 
still  more  swindled." 


250  "THE   LAST    STRAW" 

Mr.  Taylor  had  always  acted  as  Professor  Simp- 
son's solicitor 

"  It  is  not  very  pleasant  to  let  other  people  know 
of  one's  private  affairs,"  objected  Aggy. 

"  When  you  have  made  a  mess  of  them  it  is  often 
necessary." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  you  have  to  go  out  again," 
said  Aggy,  who  had  gone  back  already  to  her  usual 
injured  tone.  "What  time  do  you  start  to-morrow? 
Can  I  pack  for  you  ?  " 

Miss  Brunton  turned  on  her. 

"  Where  do  you  think  I  should  get  the  money  now  ? 
From  your  money-lender  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  whimpered  Aggy,  "  can't  you  go?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  told  you.  I  wish  you  had  let 
me  drown  myself.  It  would  have  been  much  better." 

"  I  daresay  it  would,"  said  Miss  Brunton  impatiently, 
and  she  shut  the  door  very  quietly  as  she  went  out  of 
the  house,  because  she  longed  to  bang  it. 

She  saw  Mr.  Taylor's  managing  clerk  and  gave  him 
her  instructions,  and  she  came  away  possessing  nothing 
in  the  world  but  a  couple  of  pounds  in  her  purse,  which 
would  have  to  last  her  until  her  salary  fell  due  again. 
Perhaps  if  Mr.  Taylor  himself  had  seen  her  he  would 
have  made  some  different  arrangement;  but  his  clerk 
merely  heard  what  she  had  to  say,  and  promised  to  have 
the  matter  attended  to  at  once.  It  never  occurred  to 
Miss  Brunton  that  she  could  borrow  the  money.  Per- 


"THE   LAST    STRAW"  251 

haps  it  would  not  have  been  easy,  but  at  any  rate  she 
did  not  think  of  it.  She  had  never  borrowed  a  penny 
in  her  life. 

As  she  left  the  office  her  head  swam  and  her  knees 
trembled.  She  clung  to  the  railings  and  looked  fear- 
fully up  and  down  the  street  lest  any  one  should  see 
her  and  speak  to  her.  She  felt  bewildered  and  ex- 
hausted, so  that  she  could  not  think  of  the  morrow 
or  question  the  wisdom  of  what  she  had  just  done. 
But  her  courage  had  come  to  an  end  for  the  time. 
She  had  fought  a  good  fight,  and  now  she  thought 
with  desire  of  rest.  She  walked  slowly  on,  her  eyes 
on  the  ground,  her  memory  throwing  up  odd  transient 
flashes  from  bygone  days;  broken  pictures  of  hours 
that  had  been  neither  important  nor  especially  happy: 
other  pictures  graven  on  her  mind  in  the  decisive 
moments  of  life.  As  long  as  the  streets  were  quiet 
she  remained  in  this  half-stupefied  condition ;  but  pres- 
ently she  had  to  walk  through  the  noisiest  street  in 
Blackport,  and  there  the  traffic  jarred  cruelly  on  her 
irritable  nerves.  She  hurried  on,  but  the  street  was  a 
long  one,  and  she  could  not  escape  directly.  One  heavy 
lorry  seemed  to  pursue  her.  It  stopped  when  she 
stopped,  and  came  after  her  when  she  ran  on.  At  last 
she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  she  made  a  rush  across 
the  crowded  road.  She  heard  shouts,  stared  around, 
and  suddenly  felt  afraid  to  go  on.  Something  hit  her 
violently  in  the  chest 


252  "THE   LAST   STRAW" 

Aggy  sat  beside  her  looking  very  white  and  tearful. 
There  were  screens  round  the  bed,  but  she  could  see 
by  the  ceiling  that  she  lay  in  a  large  room. 

"  It's  all  right  about  the  money,"  she  said.  It  was 
a  great  effort  to  speak,  and  she  did  not  hear  Aggy's 
answer,  because  she  lost  consciousness  again.  Next 
time  she  opened  her  eyes  she  saw  a  doctor  and  a  nurse 
as  well  as  Aggy.  She  looked  at  her  sister  with  mild 
surprise,  and  wondered  why  the  tears  streamed  down 
her  poor,  weak,  little  face. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  dying,"  she  thought. 

"  Oh !  Susan,"  cried  Aggy,  "  I  wish  there  was  some- 
thing I  could  do  for  you.  I  wish  I  had  not  let  you  go 
out  again  when  you  were  so  tired." 

Susan's  eyes  stared  dreamily  at  her  sister. 

"  I'm  all  right,"  she  whispered ;  "  the  doctor  said  I 
only  wanted  rest.  I'm  going  to  get  it." 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  they  waited.  Presently  she 
opened  them  once  more. 

"  You  go  and  look  after  the  children,"  she  said 
to  Aggy. 

Then  she  died. 


A    SENSIBLE   WOMAN 


MY  friends  say  that  poor  Captain  Ellison  has  gone  to 
the  devil.  I  know  that  this  is  not  a  pretty  phrase 
for  a  lady  to  repeat,  but  I  feel  strongly  on  the  subject, 
because  they  say  that  I  helped  him  there.  This  I 
steadfastly  deny. 

I  am  very  rich.  I  am  not  married.  On  an  average 
I  get  one  proposal  a  week.  I  do  not  mean  that  I 
receive  an  offer  every  Saturday  with  the  Athencsum 
and  the  Illustrated  London  News.  But  on  looking 
back  at  last  year's  crop  I  can  count  up  nearly  fifty 
men  who  made  a  bid  for  my  money.  I  am  systematic, 
and  so  I  always  put  down  their  names  in  a  pocket- 
book.  Don  Juan's  conquests  were  few  and  far 
between  compared  to  mine.  They  generally  say  they 
love  me.  Some  of  them  say  so  when  we  have  waltzed 
once  round  the  room  together.  I  do  not  waltz  well. 
Others  show  more  caution,  and  wait  until  we  have 
been  acquainted  at  least  three  days.  I  have  had 
proposals  by  post  from  persons  I  have  never  seen. 
Therefore  if  I  die  unwed  it  will  not  be  for  want  of 
opportunities  to  change  my  state.  The  truth  is 
that  the  kind  of  man  I  should  like  to  marry  does  not 
run  and  gather  me  to  his  heart. 

253 


254  A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN 

I  would  have  said  "  Yes "  to  Geraint.  I  have 
looked  out  for  Le  Maitre  de  Forges.  Petruchio  is 
my  favourite  hero  in  fiction.  Do  you  begin  to  under- 
stand what  kind  of  man  I  admire?  I  often  think  that 
I  ought  to  have  been  born  two  hundred  years  ago, 
when  women  still  considered  men  their  masters.  Even 
if  I  had  been  early  Victorian  I  might  have  knelt  at 
some  one's  feet  and  called  him  my  lord  and  my  love. 
How  nice  it  sounds ! 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  have  a  plain  person  and 
a  romantic  mind.  Behaviour,  like  bonnets,  must  be 
chosen  to  suit  one's  features,  and  for  a  stout  girl  with 
no  complexion  to  carry  on  like  a  beauty  would  be 
ridiculous.  I  should  wish  to  be  wooed  by  a  man  I 
could  worship.  But  on  the  one  occasion  when  this 
came  to  pass  I  had  to  neglect  the  rites  for  which  my 
heart  hungered  and  behave  like  a  sensible  woman. 
Men  always  tell  me  I  am  a  sensible  woman,  and  I 
do  not  consider  this  a  proof  of  insight  on  their  part. 
When  they  propose  they  nearly  always  mention  that 
they  do  not  call  for  looks. 

Captain  Ellison  said  something  of  the  kind  when 
he  proposed  to  me,  but  though  I  felt  annoyed  I  ac- 
cepted him.  I  saw  that  he  was  fond  of  me  in  a 
friendly  fashion,  and  at  the  time  I  thought  that  might 
serve.  I  loved  him  in  the  other  fashion,  which  I 
suppose  is  not  sensible.  His  uncle,  old  General  Elli- 
son, pushed  him  to  my  feet.  He  invited  us  together 
to  his  house,  and  then  showed  his  tactics  at  once. 


A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN  255 

I  did  not  object.  An  unmarried  woman  with  fifty 
thousand  a  year  gets  hardened  to  pursuit,  and  I  have 
never  found  that  what  is  called  "  tact "  on  the  part 
of  the  hounds  deceives  the  hare. 

So  we  were  engaged;  and  for  a  little  while  I  lived 
in  a  fool's  paradise.  I  wish  I  could  have  stayed  there. 
However,  if  one  must  be  turned  out,  I  suppose  it  is 
better  done  before  marriage  than  after.  I  am  glad, 
on  the  whole,  that  Captain  Ellison  came  to  stay  at 
Lenham  Court,  my  country  home. 

As  I  have  no  parents,  and  am  not  thirty,  my  friends 
consider  that  I  am  bound  to  provide  myself  with  a 
chaperon.  I  find  this  a  great  trial.  The  first  one 
left  because  I  objected  to  the  frequent  visits  of  her 
son,  who  drank  more  than  was  good  for  him,  and  pro- 
posed to  me  five  times.  The  second  married  the  curate, 
a  widower  with  a  large  family  and  bills.  The  third 
was  Mrs.  Augustus  Fazackery. 

If  you  advertised  for  a  lady  companion  and  got  a 
reply  in  an  old-fashioned  angular  hand  from  some  one 
who  said  she  was  a  widow,  and  who  signed  herself 
"  Matilda  Fazackery,"  what  sort  of  person  would  you 
expect  ?  I  did  not  even  ask  her  age  or  express  a  desire 
to  see  her  photograph.  She  wrote  from  somewhere  in 
the  north  of  Ireland,  and  gave  me  references  to  the 
wife  of  an  Irish  baronet  and  to  the  wife  of  an  English 
dean.  Both  ladies  said  that  they  had  the  highest 
opinion  of  Mrs.  Fazackery.  So  I  have,  in  spite  of 
what  has  happened.  But  if  any  one  asked  me  in  a 


256  A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN 

general  way  what  she  was  like,  I  think  I  should 
mention  that  she  was  only  twenty-two  and  very 
pretty. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  shock  of  my  first  meeting 
with  her.  I  went  into  the  hall  when  I  heard  the  car- 
riage arrive,  and  now  that  it  was  too  late  I  considered 
how  silly  I  had  been  not  to  get  some  impression  of 
Matilda  Fazackery's  personal  appearance.  The  bar- 
onet's wife  had  said  she  was  a  lady,  the  dean's  wife 
had  said  she  was  a  Christian,  but  they  might  have 
said  these  things  of  some  one  who  squinted  or  went 
about  with  her  face  tied  up.  When  your  looking- 
glass  gives  you  pain  it  is  really  important  that  the 
other  faces  in  your  view  should  give  you  pleasure. 
I  hoped  that  my  new  companion  would  be  a  cheerful, 
dignified  woman  of  middle  age. 

I  am  afraid  that  the  first  thing  I  said  to  Mrs. 
Fazackery  startled  her,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  She 
ran  up  the  hall-steps  to  meet  me,  and  as  the  full  light 
fell  on  her  I  cried  — 

"  Great  Scott,  child,  who  are  you  ?  " 

She  looked  quite  taken  aback. 

"  I  am  Matilda  Fazackery,"  she  said.  "  I  can  send 
Mickey  away  if  you  don't  like  him." 

I  guessed  that  she  referred  to  a  huge  Persian  kitten 
in  her  arms. 

"  Have  you  brought  any  other  animals  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  Only  a  tortoise,"  she  said. 


A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN  257 

I  nearly  replied  that  she  ought  to  have  brought  a 
nurse,  but  I  did  not  want  to  hurt  her  feelings. 

I  suppose  I  have  a  tell-tale  countenance,  because 
after  staring  at  each  other  rather  awkwardly  she 
said  — 

"  I  hope  I  shall  suit  you.  Perhaps  you  think  I  don't 
look  old  enough  ?  " 

I  have  great  self-control,  and  I  consider  that  I 
showed  it  on  that  occasion.  I  did  not  tell  her  she 
would  not  suit  me  at  all.  I  did  not  even  smile.  By 
the  time  we  had  finished  dinner  I  had  discovered  that 
at  any  rate  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  her. 

The  next  few  weeks  we  spent  in  London  buying 
clothes  for  ourselves.  I  did  not  send  her  away  after 
all.  There  really  seemed  nowhere  to  send  her  to  when 
I  came  to  inquire  more  closely  into  her  affairs.  Be- 
sides, Mickey  got  a  cold,  and  when  I  saw  how  tenderly 
she  nursed  him  I  thought  she  might  do  as  much  for 
me  some  day  if  I  won  her  affection.  The  tortoise 
stayed  behind  at  Lenham  Court. 

I  really  could  not  call  her  "  Mrs.  Fazackery,"  and 
I  am  not  fond  of  "  Matilda,"  so  one  day  when  we 
were  both  feeding  Mickey  with  beef-tea  I  asked  her 
whether  she  liked  the  name  of  Una.  She  said  she  had 
.-never  heard  it.  I  was  not  surprised,  because  only  the 
day  before  she  had  asked  me  whether  "  The  Corsican 
Brothers  "  was  by  Shakespeare.  She  did  not  care  for 
reading. 

However,  she  said  I  might  call  her  what  I  pleased. 


258  A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN 

That  evening  I  tried  to  tell  her  the  story  of  Una  and 
her  lion,  but  she  did  not  seem  much  interested,  and 
we  were  interrupted  by  a  message  from  the  stables. 
I  forget  what  it  was  now,  though  I  remember  that  she 
ran  off  at  once  to  see  some  sick  animal.  I  never  knew 
any  one  so  unromantic,  but  with  proper  training  she 
would  have  made  a  first-rate  vet.  And,  after  all,  I 
never  got  used  to  "  Una."  She  said  she  had  been 
called  Tilly  at  home,  and  she  seemed  to  think  that 
name  did  as  well  as  another.  So  Tilly  she  became 
to  me. 

When  she  had  lived  with  me  for  some  months  I 
went  to  stay  with  the  Ellisons,  and  got  engaged  to 
their  nephew.  I  told  Gerald  a  good  deal  about  my 
new  companion,  and  he  said  he  would  like  to  see  her. 
Perhaps  when  we  were  married  she  might  suit  his 
maiden  aunt,  who  was  old  and  cross,  and  liked  some 
one  bright  about  her.  I  said  so  did  I,  and  that  I 
would  as  lief  turn  sunshine  from  my  doors  as  Tilly 
and  her  Mickey.  I  told  him  that  it  was  possible  to 
get  very  fond  of  a  pretty  girl  in  three  months.  Gerald 
said  that  when  we  were  married  I  should  have  a  com- 
panion, and  that  a  young  married  couple  ought  to 
live  by  themselves.  Somehow,  even  when  I  was 
engaged  to  him,  I  never  could  think  of  myself  as  one 
of  a  young  married  couple.  I  don't  believe  I  looked 
young  when  I  was  born.  I  asked  him  to  remember 
that  he  would  often  be  smoking  and  shooting,  and  get- 
ting about  out  of  doors  on  a  hunter.  I  have  never 


A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN  259 

taken  the  least  interest  in  sport  myself.  I  once  tried 
to  sit  on  a  horse  and  failed;  so  I  never  tried  again. 
I  hate  making  a  fool  of  myself. 

Of  course,  I  had  to  give  in  about  poor  Tilly.  Gerald 
did  not  treat  me  at  all  like  a  doll  or  a  dickey-bird. 
If  he  had,  I  am  sure  I  should  have  enoyed  it.  His 
way  was  to  take  for  granted  that  a  sensible  woman 
would  agree  with  him ;  and  he  always  persisted  until 
I  did  agree.  However,  I  said  that  I  would  not  tell 
Tilly  her  fate  just  yet.  In  fact,  I  persuaded  Gerald 
to  come  and  make  her  acquaintance  first,  because 
I  thought  that  when  he  saw  what  a  pretty  chirpy 
creature  she  was,  he  might  change  his  mind  about 
turning  her  adrift. 

He  came  at  Easter,  and  at  his  request  I  asked  no 
one  to  meet  him.  He  said  he  wished  to  get  to  know 
me  better  before  our  marriage  in  June.  Tilly  was  not 
at  home  when  he  arrived,  so  he  and  I  had  tea  together 
in  my  favourite  corner  of  the  hall.  We  were  soon 
busy  making  plans.  We  always  made  plans,  or  talked 
of  sensible  subjects,  and  we  never  quarrelled.  A 
courtship  without  quarrels  is  like  a  summer  without 
showers. 

My  friends  say  that  at  this  period  of  my  life  I 
behaved  like  an  idiot.  I  can't  see  it.  I  could  not 
guess  that  Captain  Ellison  would  throw  up  everything 
for  the  sake  of  a  pretty  face.  He  must  have  seen 
a  good  many  in  his  time,  and  yet  he  asked  me  to 
marry  him.  Anyhow,  I  could  not  have  kept  Tilly 


26o  A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN 

out  of  his  way.  She  danced  in  while  we  were  at  tea, 
her  hands  full  of  daffodils,  and  Mickey,  as  usual, 
trotting  at  her  heels.  She  stopped  short  when  she 
saw  that  one  guest  had  come,  and  seemed  ready  to 
run  away.  But  I  did  not  let  her. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  we  had  cleared  a  space 
on  the  floor,  and  were  all  three  on  our  knees  teaching 
Mickey  and  Captain  Ellison's  fox-terrier  Toby  to  make 
friends.  The  fox-terrier  barked,  and  Mickey  spit  and 
swore,  and  we  laughed.  I  had  never  seen  Gerald  in 
such  good  spirits.  I  was  afraid  Toby  would  kill 
Mickey,  but  Gerald  said  that  he  was  a  most  intel- 
ligent dog,  and  quite  understood  that  Mickey  must 
not  be  molested.  To  prove  it  he  let  him  loose,  and 
the  next  moment  every  one  and  everything  seemed  to 
scatter  as  if  an  explosion  had  taken  place.  Toby  with 
a  yelp  had  pounced  on  the  cat.  Mickey  went  off  like 
fireworks  in  Tilly's  hands.  Gerald  got  hold  of  the  dog. 
I  started  back  and  upset  the  tea-tray.  I  am  sure  there 
had  never  been  such  a  noise  in  the  house  before. 

At  dinner  we  talked  mainly  about  horses,  and  next 
morning  at  breakfast  our  fancy  turned  to  dogs.  These 
two  people  seemed  to  think  animals  more  interesting 
than  human  beings,  because  when  I  invited  them  to 
drive  to  a  rubbishly  little  dog-show  in  our  county  town 
they  looked  pleased,  but  when  I  mentioned  that  some 
of  the  neighbours  were  coming  to  dinner  they  showed 
no  pleasure  whatever;  on  the  contrary. 

I  am  inclined  now  to  regret  that  I  went  to  the  dog- 


A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN  261 

show.  It  came  on  to  rain  heavily,  and  I  caught  a 
severe  cold  driving  home.  If  I  had  known  that  I 
should  spend  most  of  the  next  week  in  my  bedroom, 
I  should  probably  have  asked  Gerald  to  go  off  some- 
where. As  it  was,  I  told  Tilly  day  by  day  that  she 
must  look  after  him.  My  friends  say  I  ought  to  have 
known  what  would  come  of  it.  Friends  are  sometimes 
offensively  plain-spoken. 

I  shall  always  believe  that  I  owe  my  present  forlorn 
condition  to  Mickey,  and  I  bear  no  one  else  a  grudge. 
One  afternoon,  when  I  had  been  upstairs  nearly  a 
week,  I  put  on  a  tea-gown  and  went  down.  I  thought 
I  would  give  them  a  pleasant  surprise,  and  appear  in 
the  hall  for  tea.  To  my  alarm,  when  I  got  to  the  foot 
of  the  staircase  I  heard  Tilly  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  I  also  heard  Gerald  talking  to  her  in  a 
low,  coaxing  manner.  I  did  not  catch  what  he  said, 
nor  did  I  see  them  yet,  because  a  large  screen  shel- 
tered that  part  of  the  hall.  But  as  I  went  towards  it 
Toby  slunk  past  me  with  the  air  of  a  criminal,  and  I 
had  a  presentiment  of  what  had  happened  —  at  least 
of  one  event.  I  advanced  a  little  farther,  and  then 
stopped  short.  Mickey  lay  stretched  out  on  the  hearth- 
rug; Tilly  drooped  over  him  and  wept;  Captain  Elli- 
son was  trying  to  console  her. 

I  still  think  he  ought  not  to  have  addressed  her  as 
"  darling "  until  he  had  come  to  an  understanding 
with  me;  but  I  daresay  he  was  a  good  deal  agitated. 
It  did  not  seem  to  soothe  them  to  look  up  suddenly 


262  A   SENSIBLE   WOMAN 

and  see  me.  I  felt  uncomfortable,  and  I  suppose  I 
showed  it.  Tilly  picked  up  her  inanimate  Mickey  and 
bolted  upstairs.  I  sat  down  and  waited  for  Gerald 
to  explain. 

He  began  by  saying  I  was  a  sensible  woman,  so  I 
steeled  myself  to  hear  something  disagreeable.  He 
acknowledged  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Tilly; 
but  he  said  that  he  had  not  known  it  until  Toby  killed 
Mickey  and  made  her  cry.  He  did  not  know  whether 
she  cared  for  him ;  and  he  considered  that  he  could 
not  ask  her  unless  I  gave  him  permission  to  do  so. 
He  said  that  things  should  remain  as  they  were  if  I 
thought  it  best. 

He  looked  most  dejected,  and  fiddled  with  his 
moustache. 

I  had  taken  his  ring  off  my  finger,  and  when  he 
finished  speaking  I  gave  it  back  to  him. 

"  It  will  have  to  be  made  smaller  for  Tilly,"  I  said. 

He  stared  and  stammered,  and  then  he  looked  in- 
decently delighted.  I  had  to  laugh  or  to  cry,  so  I 
laughed.  Tears  do  not  become  me  as  they  do  Tilly. 
I  laughed  at  his  stupidity.  I  could  see  he  thought 
I  did  not  mind  giving  him  up. 

"  Then  it's  all  right  ?  "  he  said,  offering  to  shake 
hands. 

I  nodded,  and  he  went  off  like  a  shot.  I  hear  he 
tells  every  one  I  behaved  like  a  brick.  I  am  very 
glad  he  thinks  so.  My  friends  say  I  behaved  like  a 
fool.  They  were  annoyed  because  I  let  Tilly  stay 


A    SENSIBLE   WOMAN  263 

with  me  until  Captain  Ellison  took  her  away ;  but  she 
had  nowhere  to  go.  General  Ellison  has  not  forgiven 
his  nephew  yet.  He  is  one  of  those  who  say  that 
Gerald  has  gone  to  the  devil.  I  always  reply  that  he 
seems  very  happy  there;  and  then  they  call  me  blas- 
phemous. 

Tilly  is  coming  here  in  November  to  plant  rose-trees 
on  Mickey's  grave.  I  have  told  her  she  may  bring 
her  husband  if  she  likes. 


AUNT    THOMASINA 


LAST  night,  at  a  dance,  Mr.  Simpson  pretended  not 
to  know  me.  I  believe  that  he  speaks  of  me  in  terms 
that  would  wither  me  if  they  reached  my  ears.  I  am 
afraid  I  treated  him  rather  badly.  In  fact,  my  hus- 
band says  there  was  no  excuse  for  me,  and  he  advises 
me  not  to  tell  the  story.  But  my  husband  never  lived 
with  Aunt  Thomasina. 

Mr.  Tredennis  asked  me  to  marry  him  five  years 
ago,  when  I  was  eighteen  and  he  was  twenty-two.  I 
said  "  Yes,"  at  once.  Most  girls  would  say  "  Yes  " 
to  Peter.  Of  course,  he  had  no  money.  I  only  had 
Aunt  Thomasina,  and  we  agreed  that  we  could  not 
live  on  her.  So  he  went  to  India  to  carve  out  a 
career.  He  left  me  his  photograph  and  a  diamond 
ring,  which  Aunt  Thomasina  would  not  let  me  wear. 
She  did  not  recognise  our  engagement,  because  Peter 
had  no  money.  We  were  not  even  allowed  to  corre- 
spond. 

For  five  years  I  had  to  live  on  a  week  of  memories, 
a  ring,  and  a  photograph  which  grew  rather  faded 
and  shabby  as  time  went  on.  The  memories  suffered 
a  little,  too.  But  the  worst  thing  happened  to  the 
ring  —  I  lost  it. 

264 


AUNT   THOMASINA  265 

In  spite  of  Aunt  Thomasina's  prohibition,  I  had 
got  into  the  way  of  wearing  it  on  occasions  when  I 
particularly  wished  to  remember  Peter  and  my  promise 
to  him.  Until  I  lost  it  I  always  had  it  on  when  any 
one  made  me  an  offer  of  marriage.  Of  course,  I  could 
not  foresee  exactly  when  an  offer  would  be  forth- 
coming; but  as  it  happened,  I  watched  its  supporting 
sparkles  when  I  went  blackberrying  with  Captain 
Agincourt,  when  I  met  Betty  Marsden's  brother  at 
Hurlingham,  and  when  I  danced  every  dance  with 
Sir  Dennis  East  at  the  Duchess  of  Stars'  ball.  I  think 
that  I  must  have  dropped  the  ring  in  a  blackberry-bush, 
because,  though  I  mentioned  Captain  Agincourt  first, 
in  point  of  time  he  came  just  before  Mr.  Simpson. 

On  my  twenty-third  birthday,  Aunt  Thomasina  said 
she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  that  I  should  marry 
the  first  man  who  asked  me.  I  felt  sure  that,  if  she 
said  so,  I  should.  Therefore  I  reviewed  my  admirers 
more  carefully  than  usual.  I  had  not  exactly  for- 
gotten Peter,  but  I  had  outgrown  him.  I  don't  know 
how  else  to  describe  the  change  that  had  taken  place 
in  me.  From  eighteen  to  twenty-three  is  a  long  time, 
at  least  twice  as  long  as  from  thirty-eight  to  forty- 
three,  for  instance.  Peter,  dear  boy,  had  become  too 
young  for  me.  When  I  looked  at  his  photograph, 
I  felt  ready  to  be  an  elder  sister  to  him.  But  I  knew 
that  he  had  seven  already.  I  used  to  tell  myself  that 
he  had  grown  older,  but  I  never  believed  it.  My  Peter 
was  twenty-two,  and  had  rosy  cheeks. 


266  AUNT   THOMASINA 

I  rather  liked  Mr.  Simpson  before  we  were  engaged. 
He  was  one  of  those  chirpy  little  men  who  chatter 
about  nothing  and  never  hear  what  you  say  to  them. 
I  had  so  little  to  say  to  him  that  I  thought  this  trait 
an  advantage.  Aunt  Thomasina  told  him  about  my 
engagement  to  Peter.  She  called  it  a  "  childish  en- 
tanglement," and  Mr.  Simpson  professed  himself  quite 
satisfied.  I  tried  to  feel  faithless  and  miserable,  be- 
cause I  considered  it  due  to  Peter.  But,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  rather  agreed  with  Aunt  Thomasina,  who 
said  no  one  but  a  fool  would  feel  bound  to  a  man 
she  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  for  five  mortal 
years.  He  had  probably  married  long  ago.  Besides, 
I  knew  a  great  many  young  men  of  twenty-two,  and, 
when  one  of  them  proposed  to  me,  I  talked  to  him 
like  a  mother,  and  told  him  to  wait  another  ten 
years. 

Aunt  Thomasina  approved  of  Mr.  Simpson  because 
he  had  a  great  deal  of  money.  I  had  arrived  at  an 
age  when  money  seems  desirable,  but  it  sometimes 
struck  me  that  marriage  with  Mr.  Simpson  was  a 
high  price  to  pay  for  it.  To  be  sure,  he  did  not  look 
young,  like  poor  Peter's  photograph,  but  he  often 
looked  silly.  At  least,  I  thought  so  after  we  were 
engaged. 

One  day  he  rushed  into  the  drawing-room  and  said 
that  he  must  go  to  Scotland  for  a  week,  because  the 
recent  gales  had  played  havoc  with  his  newly  planted 
trees. 


AUNT   THOMASINA  267 

" '  It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  one  any  good/  " 
said  I. 

"  A  week  is  a  long  time,"  said  he,  fidgeting  from 
one  foot  to  the  other  on  the  hearthrug. 

"  It  soon  goes,"  I  sighed. 

That  night  I  looked  at  Peter's  photograph,  and 
wondered  whether  we  should  ever  meet  again.  I  pic- 
tured the  meeting.  It  should  take  place  at  a  great 
reception.  He  should  recognize  that  he  had  come 
back  too  late,  and  his  heart  should  ache  at  the  sight 
of  my  incomparable  beauty.  Because  I  did  think  he 
might  have  written  now  and  then,  just  to  keep  my 
heart  up,  in  spite  of  Aunt  Thomasina's  prohibition. 
So  I  wanted  his  heart  to  ache.  I  wished  my  incom- 
parable beauty  had  been  a  matter  of  fact.  But  what 
my  imagination  really  boggled  at  was  that  tiresome 
little  Mr.  Simpson,  who,  under  the  circumstances, 
would  be  my  husband.  You  can't  invent  a  really 
effective  sentimental  situation  with  a  man  like  Mr. 
Simpson  in  the  foreground.  Besides,  Aunt  Thomasina 
has  brought  me  up  in  a  very  old-fashioned  way,  and 
I  felt  sure  that  I  should  not  philander  with  any  one 
after  marriage.  That  is  partly  why  I  did  not  look 
forward  to  it.  As  a  girl,  I  have  enjoyed  many  little 
episodes  that  do  not  concern  Peter  and  Mr.  Simpson. 
Captain  Agincourt  and  I  spent  a  very  agreeable  after- 
noon among  the  blackberry-bushes. 

While  Mr.  Simpson  was  in  Scotland  we  telegraphed 
to  each  other  every  day.  He  had  proposed  writing, 


268  AUNT   THOMASINA 

but  I  said  that  a  correspondence  by  telegraph  would 
be  more  of  a  joke.  So  he  consented  at  once.  The 
days  flew,  but  each  one  helped  to  show  me  what  I 
had  half-known  before.  I  really  could  not  marry  Mr. 
Simpson.  I  knew  he  would  not  easily  believe  it,  be- 
cause he  had  said  to  Aunt  Thomasina  that  I  was  a 
lucky  girl.  The  memory  of  this  remark  served  to 
keep  my  mind  firm  when  it  threatened  to  give  way 
and  pretend  that  it  would  be  easier  to  marry  Mr. 
Simpson  than  to  throw  him  over.  But  I  quaked  when 
I  thought  of  Aunt  Thomasina. 

The  day  it  all  happened  she  had  gone  out.  I  was 
waiting  in  the  drawing-room  for  Mr.  Simpson,  who 
had  telegraphed  that  he  would  arrive  about  four.  I 
looked  forward  to  a  painful  interview,  because  about 
two  hours  ago  I  had  despatched  his  ring  and  an  ex- 
planatory letter  to  his  rooms.  I  hoped  he  would  take 
it  quietly,  and  look  out  for  another  lucky  girl  at  once. 
But  I  did  not  feel  at  all  quiet  myself,  and,  while  I 
waited,  I  had  a  great  deal  of  very  unpleasant  imaginary 
conversation.  This  grew  so  harrowing  that  I  began 
to  think  of  myself  as  Mrs.  Simpson  with  comparative 
relief,  when  the  butler  opened  the  door  and  announced 
some  one.  I  did  not  catch  the  name,  and,  when  I 
turned  round,  I  did  not  know  the  man  who  came 
towards  me.  At  least  I  thought  so. 

"  Lady  Sandway  is  out,"  I  began. 

"Have  you  forgotten  me,  Monica?"  said  he. 

Well,  I  had,  and  it  was  no  wonder.     I  stared  and 


AUNT    THOMASINA  269 

stared,  and  could  not  believe  my  eyes.  But  I  knew 
his  manner,  though  this,  too,  had  greatly  changed. 

"  Five  years  is  a  long  time,"  I  murmured. 

"  Is  it  too  long  ?  "  he  asked  hastily.  "  Am  I  too 
late?" 

"  Why  did  you  never  write  ?  " 

"  Because  you  forbade  it." 

"Oh!     What  a  reason!" 

He  stood  there  and  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at 
him.  Dear  Peter !  How  glad  I  was  to  see  him  again ! 
Every  moment  I  recognised  something  I  used  to  know, 
and  every  moment  I  discovered  that  the  boy  had  grown 
into  a  man. 

"  I  wish  you  had  never  left  me  your  photograph," 
I  said. 

"  Am  I  too  late,  Monica  ?  Don't  keep  me  in 
suspense." 

Mr.  Simpson  came  in  before  I  could  speak.  I  in- 
troduced the  two  men  to  each  other,  and  rang  for 
tea.  Until  it  came  we  talked  of  the  recent  gale,  and, 
when  we  were  left  to  ourselves,  I  started  subjects  of 
burning  interest,  one  on  the  top  of  another. 

"  This  is  new,"  said  Peter,  at  length ;  "  I  don't  re- 
member that  you  used  to  be  keen  about  politics." 

"  I  am  Member  for  Shrimpington,"  said  Mr.  Simp- 
son, as  if  that  explained  it. 

I  said  that  my  interest  in  politics  was  entirely  due 
to  Aunt  Thomasina,  who  could  not  go  to  sleep  after 
dinner  unless  I  read  the  debates  to  her. 


270  AUNT   THOMASINA 

"  I'm  told  I  ought  to  go  in  for  politics,  myself," 
said  Peter. 

I  put  down  the  sugar-basin,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  in  England  ?  "  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Yes.  Didn't  you  know  ?  Polruan  is  dead,  poor 
chap.  I'm  his  heir." 

"  I  thought  Evans  announced  a  strange  name,"  said 
I.  "  Are  you  Lord  Polruan  now,  then  ?  What  a  dif- 
ference it  will  make  to  Aunt  Thomasina ! " 

"  Are  you  related  to  Lady  Sandway  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Simpson. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Peter.     Then  he  turned  to  me. 

"  You'd  rather  live  in  England  than  India  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Certainly,"  I  answered ;  "  but  I  have  always  wished 
to  see  India." 

"  Well,  that's  not  impossible,"  whispered  Mr.  Simp- 
son. "What  about  a  wedding  journey  there?" 

"  Shall  we  ? "  said  I  to  Peter,  with  an  appealing 
glance. 

"  Oh,  if  you  like,"  he  replied.  He  has  confessed 
since  that  he  thought  me  rather  forward. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  your  ring  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Simpson  suddenly.  The  one  he  had  given  me  was 
very  valuable,  and  I  suppose  he  had  just  missed  it 
from  my  hand. 

"  I  daresay  you  have  lost  it,'"  said  Peter  good- 
naturedly  ;  and  I  knew  he  referred  to  the  one  of  little 


AUNT   THOMASINA  271 

value  that  he  had  given  me  five  years  ago.  I  felt 
quite  pleased  to  be  able  to  answer  straightfor- 
wardly. 

"I  have,"  I  said,  addressing  him;  "I'm  afraid  I 
dropped  it  in  a  blackberry-bush." 

"  Scissors ! "  said  Mr.  Simpson.  He  really  said 
something  much  ruder  that  I  should  not  think  of  re- 
peating. I  say  "  scissors  "  myself  sometimes. 

"  Scissors !  "  said  Mr.  Simpson ;  "  that  ring  cost 
two  hundred  pounds,  and  where  do  blackberry-bushes 
grow  in  Bruton  Street?" 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Peter,  who  by  this  time  looked 
downright  angry.  He  had  very  old-fashioned  ideas, 
and  did  not  like  to  hear  a  man  use  strong  language 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady.  "  The  ring  didn't  cost 
twenty  pounds.  I  wasn't  worth  two  hundred  when 
I  bought  it." 

Mr.  Simpson  looked  as  if  a  new  idea  had  just 
entered  his  head. 

"  Are  you  the  '  childish  entanglement '  ?  "  he  in- 
quired. 

"  Has  that  been  your  description  of  me,  Monica  ?  " 
said  Peter. 

I  took  my  courage  in  my  hands  and  turned  to  Mr. 
Simpson. 

"  I  did  not  want  to  explain  now  —  before  Lord 
Polruan.  I  wrote  to  you  this  morning,  and  said  what 
I  had  to  say.  The  letter  is  at  your  rooms." 

"But  where  is  the  ring?"  he  cried. 


272  AUNT   THOMASINA 

"  In  the  letter,"  I  said. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  jilt  me?  You  — 
a  girl  without  a  penny ! " 

I  knew  he  would  not  behave  well.  Perhaps  I  did 
not  deserve  much  at  his  hands,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
many  men  would  not  have  said  the  things  he  tried  to 
say —  until  Peter  stopped  him.  He  would  not  believe 
that  I  had  written  to  him  before  I  saw  Peter,  or  even 
knew  that  he  had  come  back  from  India  with  a  title 
and  a  fortune.  He  asked  me  whether  Aunt  Thomasina 
knew  of  the  letter  I  had  written  to  him,  and  I  had  to 
confess  that  she  did  not. 

"  Lady  Sandway  will  agree  with  me  that  your  be- 
haviour is  disgraceful,"  he  said. 

At  that  moment  Lady  Sandway  entered  the  room. 
She  went  straight  up  to  —  Peter. 

"  My  dear  Lord  Polruan,"  she  cooed,  "  -what  a 
pleasure  to  see  you  again !  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  has  happened,  Lady  Sand- 
way  ? "  blurted  out  Mr.  Simpson  at  once.  "  Your 
niece  has  thrown  me  over." 

"  Really !  "  said  Aunt  Thomasina.     "  Then " 

Of  course,  she  was  a  very  worldly  old  lady,  but 
I  never  supposed  her  worldliness  would  stand  me  in 
such  good  stead.  She  threw  off  Mr.  Simpson  like  an 
old  glove,  just  as  she  had  once  thrown  off  poor  Peter. 
But  she  admitted  later  that  she  never  could  abide  Mr. 
Simpson's  manners. 

"  I  have  just  seen   Lady   Caroline   Cadbury,"   she 


AUNT    THOMASINA  273 

said,  still  standing,  as  if  she  expected  Mr.  Simpson 
to  go  at  once. 

"  I  shall  propose  to  her  to-night,"  he  said  savagely. 

I  suppose  he  did,  because  next  day  she  wrote  to  tell 
Aunt  Thomasina  that  she  had  accepted  him,  and  hoped 
I  would  forgive  her,  as  it  was  a  case  of  an  irresistible 
attachment  on  both  sides.  I  did  not  see  Aunt  Tho- 
masina's  reply. 

Peter  maintains  that  I  treated  Mr.  Simpson  very 
badly.  It  is  all  very  well;  but  if  I  had  married  Mr. 
Simpson,  what  would  have  become  of  Peter? 


AN    ICONOCLAST 


The  study  at  Admers,  MR.  BERENGER'S  house  in  Sur- 
rey. A  comfortable,  but  rather  untidy  room,  with 
a  great  many  books  in  it.  A  beautiful  view  from 
the  Tvindoivs.  MR.  BERENGER,  the  celebrated 
novelist,  is  at  his  writing-table.  ROSE,  his  daugh- 
ter, a  very  pretty  girl  of  eighteen,  stands  near  him, 
an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

ROSE.  She  arrives  by  the  12.15.  She  will  be  here 
in  five  minutes.  I  can't  help  it,  Dad !  She  would 
come. 

MR.  B.  Bless  me,  child !  Have  you  no  will  of  your 
own? 

ROSE.  Plenty.  But  —  they  always  say  you  invited 
them,  and  it's  always  true.  You're  so  distressingly 
good-natured,  Dad. 

MR.  B.  I  suppose  I  have  my  faults,  like  other 
people,  but  I'm  not  good-natured  —  not  in  your  sense 
of  the  word,  I  mean. 

ROSE.  Oh !  ( Takes  up  a  letter  from  a  pile  on  the 
table,  some  of  which  are  not  yet  opened.}  The  Vicar 
of  Shrimpington  would  like  some  more  free  copies 

274 


AN    ICONOCLAST  275 

of  your  last  novel  to  sell  at  a  bazaar.  His  church 
steeple  is  out  of  repair.  Bless  the  Vicar  of  Shrimp- 
ington.  (Takes  up  other  letters.}  Autograph-hunters. 
Only  five  to-day.  Julia  O'Connor  would  like  a  lock 
of  your  hair.  (Laughs.)  You've  none  to  spare,  Dad, 
have  you? 

MR.  B.  (easily).  Give  me  some  sheets  of  paper. 
If  I  can  make  people  happier  with  so  little  trouble 

ROSE.  It's  all  very  well,  but  I  have  to  write  their 
silly  addresses,  and  pay  for  the  stamps  out  of  my 
housekeeping  money.  If  this  new  novel  catches  on 
like  the  last  I  shall  want  an  increased  allowance.  Or 
I  might  sell  your  signatures  at  a  shilling  apiece. 

MR.  B.  I  daresay;  and  whenever  I  was  having  a 
quiet  pipe  you'd  bring  me  a  pen  and  paper. 

ROSE.  Oh  no!  I  understand  that  even  a  novelist 
may  be  busy.  (Points  to  a  stack  of  unopened  manu- 
scripts.) I  believe  all  the  boys  and  girls  in  Great 
Britain  ask  you  to  read  their  manuscripts,  and  give 
them  your  honest  opinion. 

MR.  B.  (groans). 

ROSE.  And  think  of  the  abusive  unstamped  letters 
you  get  when  you  have  given  it ! 

MR.  B.     Some  seem  grateful. 

ROSE  (sniffs  and  takes  up  an  unopened  letter).  I 
have  just  paid  twopence  for  this  one. 

MR.  B.  (reading  aloud).  "Dear  Sir,  —  Thank  you 
for  nothing.  You  have  not  read  my  novel,  because  I 
put  a  drop  of  gum  between  page  703  and  704,  where 


276  AN    ICONOCLAST 

the  Lady  Yvonne  defies  the  Marquis,  and  it  is  still 
there;  so  your  advice  that  I  want  to  study  models  of 
fine  English  is  ridiculous,  and  when  your  next  novel 
comes  out,  I  shall  look  whether  you  have  stolen  my 
plot,  and  if  you  do  I  shall  not  spare  you.  Your  last 
novel  I  consider  very  feeble.  In  fact  you  are  going 
off,  though  no  doubt  the  ring  you  lead  will  continue 
to  roll  you  sky  high  in  their  well-known  shameless 
manner.  It  is  time  all  this  was  stopped  and  literature 
restored  to  hands  who  know  how  to  use  it.  —  Yours 
gratefully  (ha-ha),  "ROLAND  DE  BOHUN." 

Well,  that's  worth  twopence,  Rose. 

ROSE.    Oh,  Dad,  I  wish  you'd  take  things  seriously ! 

MR.  B.  My  dear  child,  you  won't  when  you're  as 
old  as  I  am.  You'll  know  that  nothing  matters  very 
much  or  lasts  very  long  —  except  the  toothache. 

ROSE.  But  your  novels  are  very  serious  —  very 
tragic. 

MR.  B.  They're  fiction.  Real  life  is  a  joke  if  you 
take  it  the  right  way. 

ROSE.     Miss  Mortlake  is  not  a  joke. 

MR.  B.  (sighs).    No. 

ROSE.  She  is  very  serious  —  very  tragic  —  like  your 
novels. 

MR.  B.  Oh,  come,  Rose,  my  novels  are  not  as  bad 
as  all  that! 

ROSE.  And  she  may  matter  very  much,  and  she 
might  stay  very  long. 


AN   ICONOCLAST  277 

MR.  B.  {uneasily).    You're  too  suspicious,  my  dear. 

ROSE.  No  wonder!  Since  I  left  school  and  you 
grew  so  famous,  I've  prevented  at  least  six  women 
from  becoming  my  stepmother.  (Indignantly.)  I've 
no  time  to  establish  myself,  Dad;  you  take  so  much 
looking  after. 

MR.  B.  When  all's  said  and  done,  a  man  can't  be 
married  against  his  will. 

ROSE.    Oh!  can't  he? 

MR.  B.     He  must  propose  to  the  woman. 

ROSE.     Oh  dear  no,  Dad.     Where  have  you  lived? 

MR.  B.  (looking  at  his  watch).  I  rather  thought 
of  taking  lunch  out  to-day,  on  my  bicycle.  Anything 
will  do ...  bread  and  cheese 

ROSE.  That's  no  good,  Dad.  It  only  delays  mat- 
ters. To-day  I'm  here. 

MR.  B.     But  what  can  you  do,  my  dear? 

ROSE.     I  must  think.     (Thinks.) 

[MR.  B.  takes  up  ROLAND  DE  BOHUN'S  letter  again 
and  chuckles  over  it.  ROSE  looks  pensively 
at  her  father.  A  long  silence,  broken  at  last 
by  MR.  B. 

MR.  B.     Well,  Rose? 

ROSE.  I  have  an  idea.  Miss  Mortlake,  as  you 
know,  is  a  flopper. 

MR.  B.    A  how  much? 

ROSE.  A  flopper . . .  always  on  her  knees  to  some 
one.  Just  now  it's  you.  A  little  while  ago  it  was 
Wilkins,  the  Minor  Poet. 


278  AN    ICONOCLAST 

MR.  B.    Will  you  set  up  a  new  idol  for  her,  then? 
ROSE.     No ;  I  thought  I'd  pull  down  the  old  one  — 
if  you  don't  mind,  Dad. 

MR.  B.  My  dear  girl,  you  may  shatter  me  in  frag- 
ments if  you  please.  Anything  for  a  quiet  life.  There's 
the  front  door. 

[He  gets  up  in  a  flurry  and  disappears  through 

a  low  French  window  into  the  garden.     The 

parlour-maid  announces  Miss  MORTLAKE,  an 

anemic-looking    young    woman    with    very 

round  prominent  eyes,  a  restless  manner,  and 

untidy  hair.    She  wears  a  shocking  coat  and 

skirt,  a  velveteen  hat  that  has  been  out  in 

the  rain,  and  thick  square-toed  boots. 

Miss  M.    You  got  my  letter,  I  hope,  Miss  Berenger. 

It  is  so  delightful  to  come  in  this  informal  friendly 

way.     When  I  met  your  father  at  the  New  Gallery 

last  week  we  somehow  began  to  talk  about  pilgrimages. 

You  can't  be  a  moment  in  Mr.  Berenger's  company 

without  talking  of  something  that  ennobles  the  soul, 

can  you? 

ROSE.  It's  not  my  experience.  I  only  see  father  at 
meals,  and  then  he's  usually  growling  at  the  food. 
It  doesn't  ennoble  my  soul.  It  annoys  me.  There  was 
a  beautiful  steak-pie  at  breakfast  this  morning.  The 

gravy  was  all  jelly  and 

Miss  M.  My  dear  Miss  Berenger!  I  can't  think 
of  your  father  in  connection  with  steak-pies  and  jelly. 
I  suppose  he  eats  and  drinks  like  other  people,  though 


AN   ICONOCLAST  279 

one  can  hardly  imagine  the  creator  of  "  Maud  Wy- 
vern  "  doing  anything  but  dream  and  write . . .  and  per- 
haps walk  over  his  own  hills . . .  and  perhaps  read  fine 
poetry. 

ROSE.  Father  reads  the  Daily  Mail,  and  Punch, 
and  the  Sphere . . .  chief ly,  and  if  he  dreams  I  hear 
of  it.  He  says  his  dinner  has  disagreed  with  him. 

Miss  M.  (shudders}.  But,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
your  father  spoke  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  he  spoke  of 
Abbotsford,  he  spoke  of  Freshwater ;  and  I  said  boldly, 
"  All  these  may  wait  for  me,  Mr.  Berenger.  When  I 
put  on  cockleshells  and  sandall'd  shoon  I  shall  go  to 
Admers." 

ROSE  (with  her  eyes  on  Miss  M.'s  boots).  And 
what  did  father  say? 

Miss  M.  He  said  you  always  had  lunch  at  one, 
and  might  come  any  day  by  the  12.15.  I've  trodden 
on  air  ever  since.  Is  this  his  study?  (In  a  sepulchral 
voice.)  Was  it  here  that  Maud  Wyvern  lived  and 
died?  Where  does  he  sit?  Where  does  he  write? 
Let  me  sit  in  his  chair. 

ROSE.  He  sits  there. .  .with  his  feet  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

Miss  M.    Hozv  original. 

ROSE.  It's  expensive.  That  mantelpiece  was 
painted  white  a  month  ago.  You  see  the  colour  now. 
You  won't  find  the  chair  comfortable.  All  the  springs 
are  broken.  Dad  weighs  thirteen  stone,  you  know. 
He'll  have  no  figure  left  soon. 


280  AN    ICONOCLAST 

Miss  M.  (looks  startled,  but  recovers).  And  do 
you  sit  here  while  he  works  and  inspire  him? 

ROSE.  Good  gracious,  no.  If  the  housemaid  knocks 
a  broom  against  the  door  he  swears,  and  if  I  go  near 
him  he  throws  things  at  me. 

Miss  M.     ! ! ! 

ROSE.  Yes;  Dad's  a  fiendish  temper.  Of  course, 
it  isn't  his  fault,  poor  dear.  It's  the  disease. 

Miss  M.    What  disease? 

ROSE  (truthfully).    I  can't  tell  you. 

Miss  M.     Dear  me!     How  sad. 

ROSE.  Oh!  It  won't  kill  him.  I  daresay  I  shall 
die  first.  (Sighs.)  I  have  to  order  his  dinners. 

Miss  M.  (to  herself).  If  there  is  a  quality  in  men 
I  hold  in  detestation  it  is  greediness.  A  really  spiri- 
tual man  ought  not  to  know  what  he  is  eating. 

[A  gong  is  sounded,  and  ROSE  leads  the  way  into 
the  dining-room,  where  MR.  B.  is  waiting.  It 
is  a  charming  room  and  a  well-ordered  table. 

Miss  M.  (at  the  window).  What  a  view!  I  am 
sure  I  should  be  inspired  myself  if  I  sat  and  gazed 
at  it.  Do  you  look  out  of  the  window  while  you 
think,  Mr.  Berenger? 

MR.  B.     I  don't  know.     [They  sit  down  to  lunch. 

ROSE.  I  hope  you  have  taken  your  dinner-pills, 
Dad. 

MR.  B.  Dinner-pills!  (Catches  her  eye  and  shakes 
his  head  reprovingly.)  Pass  the  claret  to  Miss  Mort- 
lake,  Rose. 


AN    ICONOCLAST  281 

Miss  M.     I  never  touch  wine,  Mr.  Berenger. 

ROSE  (jumping  up).  I'll  mix  your  brandy  and 
water  for  you,  Dad.  Dear  me,  Minton  has  forgotten 
the  hot  water.  (Rings.) 

MR.  B.  Thank  you,  Rose,  I  think  I  won't  have  it 
to-day. 

ROSE.  Oh !  you'd  better.  You're  so  used  to  it,  you 
know.  (Mixes  a  steaming  glass  and  places  it  as  near 
as  she  can  to  Miss  M.,  who  edges  away  from  it  in 
disgust. ) 

Miss  M.  I  met  a  great  admirer  of  yours  the  other 
day,  Mr.  Beringer;  such  a  cultured  woman.  She  said 
she  had  read  "  Maud  Wyvern  "  five  times,  and  when- 
ever she  came  to  Maud's  death  she  dissolved  in  tears. 
It  is  just  what  I  do  myself.  Did  you  weep  when  you 
wrote  it? 

ROSE.     I  can  answer  that  question.     (MR.  B.  looks 

surprised.)      Don't  you  remember,  Dad?     You  came 

in  to  me  —  chortling.     "  That'll  fetch  'em,"  you  said. 

'  That's  good  for  fifty  thousand."     So  it  has  been. 

I've  had  five  new  hats  since  Maud  Wyvern  died. 

MR.  B.  Rose,  your  imagination  runs  away  with 
you. 

Miss  M.  /  really  should  not  like  to  live  in  the 
house  with  that  girl.  I  wonder  if  she  is  quite  truth- 
ful. A  fiendish  temper  and  brandy  and  water  for 
lunch.  How  unlike  one's  ideal!  (Aloud.)  I  have 
always  fancied,  Mr.  Beringer,  that  in  your  portrait 
of  Sir  Guy  Ferrers  you  drew  largely  on  yourself. 


282  AN    ICONOCLAST 

(Pause.)     He  is  assuredly  the  most  dashing  and  chiv- 
alrous figure  in  modern  fiction. 

ROSE  (exploding).  Dad  isn't  dashing  —  not  much. 
You  should  see  him  back-.pedalling  down  our  hills. 
I  always  have  to  wait  for  him  at  the  bottom. 

MR.  B.  (severely).  Rose,  your  tongue  runs  away 
with  you. 

ROSE  (getting  up  and  imprinting  a  wheedling  little 
butterfly  kiss  on  her  father's  forehead).  And  your 
bike  runs  away  with  you,  Dad,  doesn't  it?  (To  Miss 
M.)  I  had  to  help  him  out  of  a  ditch  once. 

Miss  M.  (in  a  tone  of  disgust).  Do  you  ride  — 
er  —  ironmongery,  Mr.  Berenger  ? 

[MR.  B.  is  about  to  reply,  when  a  startling  inci- 
dent disturbs  the  conversation.    A  tennis-ball 
flies  through  the  open  windoiv  and  hits  Miss 
M.  rather  violently  on  the  chin.    It  rebounds 
on  the  table  and  upsets  several  slender  flower- 
glasses.    Tumult  and  apologies.    MR.  B.  goes 
off  in  search  of  the  offenders. 
ROSE  (calmly).    That's  Tommy.    Last  time  he  broke 
a  decanter.     I've  three  brothers,  you  know. .  .demons. 
Miss  M.     Indeed!     I  didn't  know.     I  thought  you 
were  the  only  child,  and  when  I  saw  you  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Poor  Mr.  Berenger  will  be  a  very  lonely 
man  before  long."    Are  there  three  boys  living  in  this 
house? 

ROSE.  Yes.  They  go  to  school  now,  but  before 
that  I  used  to  teach  them. 


AN    ICONOCLAST  283 

Miss  M.     What  anxious  work! 

ROSE.  It  chiefly  consisted  in  chasing  them  up 
and  down  stairs.  They  play  at  being  Red  Indians, 
and  you  can  hear  their  yells  at  the  end  of  the 
garden. 

Miss  M.  But  how  can  your  father  write  if  you 
make  such  a  noise? 

ROSE.  He  can't.  He  waits  till  we're  all  in  bed. 
He  sits  up  half  the  night,  and  has  breakfast  any  time. 
That's  why  he's  so  dyspeptic. 

Miss  M.  Dyspeptic !  The  author  of  "  Maud  Wy- 
vern  "  dyspeptic ! 

MR.  B.  (returning).  Tommy  is  very  much  ashamed 
of  himself,  Miss  Mortlake.  The  truth  is,  that  the 
tennis-ball  was  really  a  tomahawk  hurled  by  Red  Eagle, 
the  terror  of  the  plains,  and  you  can't  expect  an  Indian 
chief  in  the  heat  of  battle  to  look  out  for  an  open 
window.  In  future  I  have  said  that  I  will  not  have 
Red  Indians  this  side  of  the  yew-hedge.  They  are 
too  careless. 

Miss  M.  (to  herself).  Then  she  docs  speak  the 
truth.  They  do  pretend  to  be  Red  Indians.  What  a 
very  odd  idea! 

ROSE  (getting  up).  Shall  we  go  into  the  drawing- 
room?  I  suppose  you  don't  mind  smoke,  Miss  Mort- 
lake? 

Miss  M.  I'm  afraid  I  do,  Miss  Berenger.  Even 
a  cigarette  gives  me  vertigo. 

ROSE.    How  distressing !  I  hope  stale  smoke  doesn't, 


284  AN   ICONOCLAST 

because  all  of  our  rooms  smell  of  it.     Dad  has  his 
pipe  whenever  he  pleases. 

Miss  M.  I  never  can  understand  why  a  man  of 
refined  habits  should  want  to  smoke.  /  don't. 

ROSE.    But  you're  not  a  man  —  of  refined  habits. 

Miss  M.  It  is  so  impossible  to  put  a  self-indulgent 
man  on  a  pedestal. 

ROSE.  Well,  if  I  were  a  man  I'd  prefer  an  easy- 
chair. 

Miss  M.  But  have  you  no  high  ideals?  The  man 
I  worship  must  be  heroic  and  austere. 

ROSE.     I  suppose  it's  a  matter  of  taste. 

Miss  M.     It  is  so  thrilling  to  look  up  and  adore. 

ROSE.     I  never  tried  it. 

Miss  M.     So  heart-breaking  to  see  the  idol  fall. 

ROSE.  There  is  always  the  pedestal  —  and  idols 
are  cheap  to-day. 

Miss  M.  Ah !  You  have  your  father's  mocking 
spirit  —  the  spirit,  I  mean,  of  his  wonderful,  his  in- 
comparable books.  It  is  odd  that  his  conversation 

should  be  so  —  so 

i      ROSE.     Flat.     You  see,  Dad  writes  at  night.     He 
gets  lively  after  supper. 

Miss  M.  (to  herself}.  Supper!  What  a  house- 
hold! What  ways.  (Aloud.)  Does  he  —  then — does 
he  —  drink  brandy  and  water  for  supper? 

ROSE.    Rather. 

Miss  M.     !!! 

[MR.  B.  comes  into  the  drawing-room.    ROSE  gets 


AN   ICONOCLAST  285 

up  and  goes  out,  saying  something  inarticu- 
late about  TOMMY'S  dinner. 

Miss  M.     When  is  the  next  train,  Mr.  Berenger? 
MR.  B.     At  3.15.     But  the  4.20  is  better.     Won't 
you  stay  for  that? 

Miss  M.     No,  thank  you. 

[The  parlour-maid  brings  MR.  B.  a  small  package 

that  has  just  come  by  the  post. 
MR.  B.     Proofs !     I  think  my  new  novel,  "  Flower 
o'  the  Quince,"  will  be  out  in  six  weeks. 

[Miss   M.   bows  slightly  and  says  nothing. 
MR.  B.   (not  noticing  her  manner  yet}.     What  do 
you  think  of  the  name? 

Miss  M.  (seriously).  I  am  afraid  that  in  future  I 
shall  feel  very  differently  about  the  names  of  your 
novels  and  their  contents. 

MR.  B.  (looking  at  her).  Has  your  pilgrimage  been 
so  disappointing? 

Miss  M.     I  confess  it  has.     I  may  seem  rude,  but 
I  am  shattered,  and  you  must  forgive  me.     Perhaps  I 
am  an  idealist,  Mr.  Berenger.      I  did  not  expect  to 
find  you  all  so  very  —  er  —  real. 
MR.  B.     Oh!     I  admit  our  reality. 
Miss  M.     You  never  told  me  you  had  three  boys 
at  home.     Boys  should  be  at  school. 

MR.  B.  (rather  shortly).  My  boys  are  delicate. 
They  will  be  at  home  for  years. 

Miss  M.     I   really  cannot  stand  boys. 

[MR.  B.  lifts  his  eyebrows. 


286  AN    ICONOCLAST 

Miss  M.  Mr.  Berenger,  there  is  a  scene  in  one 
of  your  novels  that  I  admire  —  I  mean  that  I  did 
admire  more  than  any  scene  in  literature.  (She  waits 
in  vain  for  MR.  B.  to  say  something.)  It  is  when 
Maud  Wy vern  admits  to  Sir  Guy  Ferrers  —  though 
he  is  poor  and  she  is  rich 

MR.  B.     Yes.     He  is  poor  and  she  is  rich. 

Miss  M.  I  have  twenty  thousand  pounds,  Mr. 
Berenger. 

MR.  B.     I  am  delighted  to  hear  it.     But 

Miss  M.  (shaking  her  head).  It  is  impossible,  Mr. 
Berenger.  All  the  way  here  I  thought  of  that  scene. 
All  the  way  home  I  shall  think  of  another. 

MR.  B.  Indeed.  (To  himself.)  Where  can  Rose 
be?  I  wish  she'd  come  back. 

Miss  M.     It  is  a  scene  in  a  novel  of  my  own. 

MR.  B.     I  didn't  know  you  wrote  novels. 

Miss  M.     I  have  written  ten. 

[MR.  B.  looks  surprised. 

Miss  M.  They  are  not  published.  My  friends  ad- 
mire them,  and  that  is  enough  for  me.  Some  day, 
perhaps. .  .1  don't  despise  fame,  but  I  am  in  no  hurry 
for  it.  The  novel  I  am  thinking  of  is  called  "  The 
Idol." 

MR.  B.  (quoting  softly).  "  Bloomin'  idol  made  o' 
mud." 

Miss  M.  When  the  heroine  discovers  that  the  hero 
falls  short  of  her  ideal,  she  dies  of  a  broken  heart. . . 
on  the  spot ...  in  his  arms. 


AN   ICONOCLAST  287 

MR.  B.     Poor  fellow! 

Miss  M.  (her  eyes  very  round).  And  he  never 
touches  brandy  again. 

MR.  B.  (stifling  a  yawn).  I  should  have  thought 
he  wanted  some  after  that. 

Miss  M.  My  novels  are  not  flippant,  Mr.  Berenger. 
They  are  like  my  life  —  purposeful  and  truly  inward. 
And  as  my  life  is,  so  must  my  surroundings  be.  What 
I  dream  of  is  no  doubt  rare  and  difficult  to  attain. 
I  want  a  companion  whose  lightest  word  carries  a 
gospel,  and  whose  every  hour  is  devoted  to  the  im- 
provement of  the  soul;  who  climbs  a  little  higher 
day  by  day,  and  lifts  me  higher  too. 

MR.  B.  Well,  I  hope  you'll  find  him  —  her  —  Miss 
Mortlake. 

Miss  M.  I  have  not  found  him  yet.  I  thought  I 
had.  (Suddenly.)  I'm  afraid  it's  time  to  start  if  I 
am  to  catch  the  3.15. 

Enter  ROSE,  with  flowers. 

ROSE.  I've  gathered  you  some  roses.  They  won't 
live  long,  but  for  a  day  they  will  remind  you  of 
Admers. 

Miss  M.  Then  I  will  leave  them  here.  I  wish  to 
forget  Admers.  (Marches  out,  leaving  her  astonished 
host  and  hostess  staring  at  each  other.) 

MR.  B.  Rose,  you  little  minx,  what  have  you  been 
saying  to  her? 

ROSE.  I  said  you  liked  your  dinner  well  cooked; 
so  you  do.  I  said  the  boys  were  noisy  little  demons; 


288  AN    ICONOCLAST 

so  they  are.  I  suppose  I  said  a  few  other  things. 
I've  just  given  Tommy  a  shilling. 

MR.  B.    What  for? 

ROSE.     For  the  tennis-ball.     It  was  a  help. 

MR.  B.     H'm.     "  I  was  adored  once." 

ROSE.  I  know  she  came  down  here  intending  to 
propose  to  you. 

MR.  B.  (with  sudden  severity) .  Rose,  do  you  listen 
at  doors? 

ROSE  (smothering  her  father  with  kisses).  I  knew 
it,  I  knew  it,  Dad !  No  need  to  listen.  What  a  mercy 
I  was  at  home! 

MR.  B.  (tenderly).     Poor  Miss  Mortlake. 

ROSE.  Don't  worry,  Dad.  She'll  stick  up  some 
one  else.  I  couldn't  spare  you  for  her  pedestal.  I 
want  you  all  the  time  for  my  own. 


A    SKY    SIGN 


SCENE  :  A  sitting-room  on  a  fourth  floor  flat  in  Ken- 
sington. Books,  floivers,  autotypes,  copper  jars, 
honeysuckle  cretonne,  a  Persian  carpet,  comfort- 
able chairs. 

FLORA  HATHAWAY.  I  can't  see  it.  Give  up  the 
man  you  care  for  because  you  think  a  married  woman 
can't  write  as  much  for  the  magazines  as  a  single  one ! 
I  should  let  the  magazines  go  to 

STELLA  BLOIS.  You  always  caricature  one's  views, 
Flora.  I  have  not  said  I  care  for  Jack. 

FLORA.  Said!  Hath  not  a  friend  eyes?  You 
needn't  get  so  red.  If  Captain  Daresham  worshipped 
the  ground  /  trod  on 

STELLA.  It's  different  for  you,  Flora.  You're  a 
darling,  but  you  do  nothing  but  dress  and  flirt  and 
play  the  banjo.  Now,  you  ought  to  marry. 

FLORA.  If  you  throw  over  Captain  Daresham  I 
shall  consider  him  fair  game.  I  have  a  new  toque, 
with  blue  poppies—  Aha!  You  don't  like  the  idea. 
Thought  you  wouldn't. 

STELLA.  I  have  drudged  and  slaved  and  given  up. 
I  have  worked  early  and  late.  At  last  success  is 

289 


290  A   SKY    SIGN 

knocking  at  my  door  —  such  a  gentle  knock  —  perhaps 
only  my  ears  hear  it.  But  with  each  new  effort  it  will 
come  a  little  louder  —  if  I  think  of  nothing  else 

FLORA.  Sell  yourself  to  the  devil,  like  a  mediaeval 
bridge  -  builder.  Well,  if  you  think  it's  worth  it. 
Seems  to  me  utter  nonsense,  you  know.  If  you  marry 
Jack  you  get  something  out  of  life  —  affection  and 
all  that  —  I  can't  talk,  but  I'd  like  to  have  some  one 
round  as  I  get  older  who  thinks  I'm  the  only  woman 
in  the  world.  Must  be  kind  of  soothing  when  you 
begin  to  see  wrinkles  and  grey  hair.  Put  your  ink- 
pot in  your  trunk,  and  write  your  rubbish  on  your 
honeymoon. 

STELLA.  You  don't  understand,  sweetheart.  You 
never  understand.  I  want  to  write  a  great  novel  — 
an  "  Esmond,"  perhaps.  I  want  to  spend  five  years 
over  it  —  build  it  word  by  word,  step  by  step;  die, 
for  all  I  care,  when  it  is  finished. 

FLORA.  Oh,  you  goose!  In  five  years  you  won't 
be  as  pretty  as  you  are  now.  Good-bye. 

STELLA.  Jack  is  coming  this  afternoon  to  wish  me 
many  happy  returns.  I  must  be  ready  with  my  an- 
swer. It  is  not  right  to  keep  him  on  tenterhooks  so 
long.  I  wish  something  would  happen  to  drive  me 
one  way  or  the  other.  I  wish  there  were  sky  signs 
to  tell  us  what  to  do.  Suppose  I  could  see  it  written 
in  great  letters  across  the  sky :  "  Stella  Blois,  give 
up  marriage  and  go  on  with  your  work."  Of  course, 
it  would  only  be  visible  to  me. 


A    SKY    SIGN  291 

FLORA.    Yes ;  and  directly  you  did  see  it  you'd  want 
to  give  up  work  and  go  on  with  marriage.     Ta-ta! 
STELLA.     Are  you  going?     Stay  to  tea. 
FLORA.     Is  it  likely? 

[She  goes.  STELLA  sees  her  to  the  door,  and 
then  returns  to  the  sitting-room.  She  stands 
still  and  looks  round. 

STELLA.  How  pretty  this  room  is!  I  can  do  just 
as  I  like  here  —  lead  the  life  that  pleases  me  —  see 
the  friends  I  choose  —  spend  my  time  and  money  as 
I  will.  Why  should  I  desire  any  change?  Do  I 
desire  any?  I  wish  I  knew! 

[She  sits  dozvn  and  takes  up  a  book,  but  does 
not  open  it.      A  little  later,  a  maid-servant 
opens  the  door  and  shows  in  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  young  man,  zvhom  she  announces 
as  CAPTAIN  DARESIIAM. 
STELLA.     Tea,  Mary.     How  d'ye  do,  Jack? 
CAPTAIN  D.      Many  happy  returns,  Stella!     How 
jolly  this  room  always  looks ! 

STELLA.  It  may  well  look  jolly  when  you  fill  it 
with  roses.  Thank  you  so  much  for  them. 

[MARY  brings  in  tea.     The  china  is  old  and  del- 
icate, the  silver  very  bright.     CAPTAIN  DAR- 
SHAM    sits    down    near    the    tea-table    and 
watches  STELLA  make  the  tea.     MARY  goes. 
CAPTAIN  D.     What  pretty  hands  you  have,  Stella! 
STELLA   (absently).      Have  I?     Let  me  see.     You 
do  take  sugar?  —  one  of  your  old-fashioned  ways. 


292  A    SKY   SIGN 

CAPTAIN  D.    What  are  the  others? 

STELLA.  Oh,  everything!  Not  your  ways,  per- 
haps, but  your  ideas. 

CAPTAIN  D.  Don't  let's  quarrel  on  your  birthday. 
We  always  quarrel  when  we  talk  about  my  ideas. 

STELLA.     You  must  keep  them  out  of  sight,  then. 

CAPTAIN  D.  So  I  will  —  "  all  but  one,"  as  Hamlet 
says. 

STELLA.     Have  you  ever  read  "  Hamlet  "  ? 

CAPTAIN  D.  Oh!  if  you're  going  to  rag  —  Look 
here,  Stella  —  stick  to  the  point.  You  promised  me 
an  answer  to-day. 

STELLA  (sighing).    Ye-es. 

CAPTAIN  D.     Is  that  the  answer? 

STELLA.  No,  certainly  not.  Don't  jump  at  one  like 
that,  Jack.  I  nearly  upset  my  tea.  Sit  down  and 
keep  cool,  and  let  us  talk  sensibly. 

CAPTAIN  D.  I'd  rather  talk  foolishly.  Sometimes 
I  wish  you  were  a  bit  more  of  a  fool. 

STELLA.  If  you  wish  me  any  different  from  what 
I  am,  we  will  give  it  up  —  because  we  should  only 
make  each  other  miserable. 

CAPTAIN  D.     I'll  risk  it,  if  only  you  will. 

STELLA.  Yes,  I  know  you're  rash  and  easily  car- 
ried away.  Men  are,  poor  things !  I  must  look  ahead 
for  both  of  us.  Now,  for  instance,  if  you  have  an 
idea  that  when  once  we  are  married  you  can  mould 
me  — 

CAPTAIN  D.     Good  heavens,  Stella!   you  talk  as  if 


A    SKY   SIGN  293 

you  were  a  blanc-mange.      I  want  you  just  as  you 
are  —  have  done  for  the  last  two  years. 

STELLA.  You  said  you  wished  me  more  of  a  fool. 
What  can  that  mean  if  not  that  you  want  to  shape 
me  in  your  own  —  your  own 

CAPTAIN  D.  In  my  own  image.  Thank  you,  Stella. 
I  asked  for  a  plain  answer,  and  I  suppose  I've  got  it. 

STELLA.     Why  can't  you  keep  your  temper,  as  I  do  ? 

CAPTAIN  D.  Because  you  might  have  let  me  down 
more  easily. 

STELLA.  I  don't  call  it  nice  to  say  you'll  go  back 
to  India  to-morrow  unless  I  marry  you.  Highway- 
man manners !  Why  can't  we  go  on  as  we  are  ? 

CAPTAIN  D.  Because  we  can't.  At  least,  I  can't. 
I  want  a  straight  answer.  I've  waited  a  long  time 
for  one. 

STELLA.     Very  well  —  No. 

CAPTAIN  D.  (getting  tip).     Do  you  mean  that? 

STELLA.     When  you  look  like  that,  I  do. 

CAPTAIN  D.     Good-bye,  then. 

STELLA.     Are  you  going?     Good-bye. 

[She  averts  her  head  and  lets  him  go  without 
shaking  hands.  The  bang  of  a  door  is  heard. 
She  makes  a  little  rush  forward,  and  then 
stops  short. 

STELLA.  Gone!  And  now  I  can  begin  the  novel. 
(She  sits  doivn  and  stares  at  a  bozvl  of  roses.)  It  will 
have  to  be  a  very  great  novel  to  make  it  worth  while. 
I  wonder  when  he  will  start  for  India?  Surely  he 


294  A   SKY   SIGN 

will  come  and  see  me  again  first.     If  he  didn't  —  I 
should  have  the  novel  —  which  is  not  begun. 

[MARY  comes  in  and  removes  the  tea-things. 

Then  she  returns. 

MARY.  If  you  please,  m'm,  can  I  go  out  for  half- 
an-hour  ? 

STELLA.     Certainly. 

[She  sits  dozvn  at  her  writing-table  and  takes  a 
note-book  from  a  drawer.  Presently  the  out- 
side door  bangs  again. 

STELLA.  It  is  much  better  so.  Marriage  would  be 
very  distracting.  I  believe  that  the  wear  and  tear  of 
ordering  three  meals  a  day  for  a  man  is  quite  in- 
calculable. But  I  shall  miss  Jack.  India  is  a  long 
way  off,  and  the  climate  never  suited  him.  How  pro- 
voking men  are!  They  always  want  to  marry  every 
one  directly.  As  if  marriage  were  the  only  relation- 
ship worth  having.  Well,  I  can  see  my  life  a  long 
way  ahead  now.  I  shall  live  here  ten  months  out  of 
the  year  and  grind  away  at  my  writing;  the  other 
two  months  I  shall  spend  in  a  Swiss  hotel.  I  shall 
get  a  little  older  every  year,  and,  as  that  minx  Flora 
says,  a  little  uglier.  Flora  will  marry,  and  then  there 
will  be  no  one  who  cares  a  rap  for  me.  Some  day 
Jack  will  come  back  with  a  liver  and  a  family.  ( The 
bell  rings. )  Jack  come  back  already !  Oh ! 

[She  rushes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.  A  SEEDY- 
LOOKING  SPECTACLED  FOREIGNER,  in  a  dilapi- 
dated coat,  makes  his  way  in  before  she  has. 


A   SKY   SIGN  295 

recovered  from  her  surprise.  He  bows  ob- 
sequiously and  presents  a  visiting-card  on 
•which  she  sees  a  German  name,  and,  scrawled 
in  pencil,  the  names  of  a  distinguished  English 
professor  and  of  her  own  last  book.  She  leads 
the  way  back  to  the  sitting-room,  but  reflects 
that  she  is  alone  on  the  flat,  and  leaves  both 
doors  ajar. 

STELLA.  Please  sit  down.  (To  herself.)  He'll 
dislocate  his  neck  if  he  goes  on  bowing.  Who  can  he 
be?  Too  shabby  for  a  German  professor.  He  can't 
be  a  thief  —  with  spectacles  and  a  bundle  of  papers 
under  his  arm.  (Aloud.)  You  come  from  Berlin,  you 
say,  and  you  know  Professor  Cambervvell,  and  you 
wish  to  see  me  about  my  book,  "  The  Life  of  Dorothea 
Eutin."  Do  you  want  to  translate  it? 

SEEDY-LOOKING  F.  Oh !  madam  —  your  very  learned 
book  —  and  I  have  corresponded  with  Professor  Cam- 
berwell  —  and  my  father  he  has  corresponded  with 
Dorothea  Eutin  —  yes,  madam.  (Sighs  deeply,  gets 
up  and  bows,  sits  down  again.) 

STELLA  (to  herself).  I  wish  he'd  speak  out.  I 
believe  he  has  come  to  beg;  but  I  can't  offer  a  man 
money  till  he  asks  for  it.  (Aloud.)  Are  you  engaged 
in  literary  work? 

SEEDY-LOOKING  F.  Oh,  madam  —  yes  —  a  reader 
—  a  reader  of  the  drama  and  poetry  —  and  I  have  had 
a  railway  accident,  and  was  seven  months  in  the  hos- 
pital —  seven  months,  madam  —  and  it  has  affected 


296  A   SKY   SIGN 

my  head  and  my  memory.  But  your  book,  madam, 
"  Dorothea  Eutin  "  —  yes.  (Sighs.) 

STELLA.  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry  for  you.  I  sup- 
pose you  want  to  find  work,  or  perhaps  a  little  help? 

SEEDY-LOOKING  F.  Work,  madam?  That  is  not 
to  be  found.  I  go  to  the  editors  and  publishers.  They 
are  out  —  always  out.  I  go  to  your  great  poet  —  I 
have  written  poetry  myself  —  he  has  a  visitor  — 
always  a  visitor.  I  go  to  the  German  Consul:  he 
gives  me  five  shillings  —  five  shillings,  madam,  to  a 
man  who  has  served  his  country  —  who  has  himself 
to  support  and  two  sons ! 

STELLA.  It's  not  much,  certainly.  (To  herself.) 
I  wish  Mary  would  come  back.  He's  mad,  I'm  sure, 
and  he's  getting  excited.  (Aloud.)  I  suppose  you 
earn  your  living  in  some  way? 

SEEDY-LOOKING  F.  Lessons,  madam ;  sixpence  an 
hour  and  never  enough.  I  make  five  shillings  a  week. 
How  can  a  man  of  letters,  a  gentleman,  support  him- 
self and  two  sons  on  five  shillings  a  week? 

STELLA  (to  herself).  I  wonder  if  he  is  quite  truth- 
ful. (Looks  at  his  card,  which  is  still  in  her  hands.) 
Professor  Camberwell!  Why! —  (Aloud.)  Did  you  say 
Professor  Camberwell  gave  you  an  introduction  to  me  ? 

SEEDY-LOOKING  F.  Oh !  madam.  Professor  Cam- 
berwell !  I  have  corresponded  with  him  —  yes  —  and 
my  accident  —  I  cannot  remember 

STELLA  (indignantly).    He  died  a  year  ago. 

SEEDY-LOOKING  F.    Died !    I  had  not  heard  it.    What 


A   SKY   SIGN  297 

a  pity !  Then  I  cannot  go  and  see  him.  Ah !  he  said 
he  would  help  me  to  return  to  Hamburg.  The  fare 
is  two  pounds  ten,  madam. 

STELLA.    I  thought  you  said  you  came  from  Berlin ! 
SEEDY-LOOKING  F.     From  Hamburg,  madam.     The 
fare  is  two  pounds  ten. 

STELLA.     I  can't  give  you  as  much  as  that.    If  five 

shillings  is  of  any  use 

SEEDY-LOOKING  F.  Five  shillings,  madam !  —  to  a 
man  who  has  served  his  country  —  to  a  colleague  — 
a  man  of  letters,  who  has  lost  his  memory ! 

STELLA  (to  herself).  I  don't  like  it.  He  has  a  bad 
face.  I  wonder  if  I  could  floor  him.  He's  a  little 
man,  but  I've  no  more  muscle  than  a  mouse.  I  wish 
Jack  would  come  back  and  turn  him  out.  I've  no 
money  in  my  pocket.  I  must  get  some  out  of  the 
writing-table  drawer.  I  hate  having  to  walk  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  Suppose  he  came  after  me 
and  knocked  me  down.  But  I  should  hear  him  move. 
Anyhow,  I  must  do  it  to  get  rid  of  him. 

[She  gets  up  and  walks  hurriedly  to  the  writing- 
table.  The  moment  her  back  is  turned,  her 
visitor  rises  softly  and  steals  to  a  table 
covered  with  silver  knick-knacks.  He  puts 
tzvo  or  three  in  his  pocket.  STELLA  sees  this 
in  a  small  mirror. 

STELLA  (to  herself).  A  common  thief.  I  knew  it. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  Get  past  him  and  lock  him  in  ?  The 
key  is  on  this  side  of  the  door.  Perhaps  I  had  better 


298  A   SKY    SIGN 

give  him  the  five  shillings  and  let  him  go  quietly  — 
if  he  will,  the  little  wretch!  What  is  he  doing  now 
—  creeping  to  the  fireplace?  Oh,  I  wish  I'd  turned 
round  before  —  he  has  picked  up  the  poker  —  he 
means  to  knock  me  down  and  steal  everything.  What 
shall  I  do  ?  How  my  knees  tremble  and  my  hands  — 
idiot !  —  and  there's  nothing  but  a  paper-knife.  In 
future  I'll  always  have  a  dagger  or  a  pistol  handy. 
He's  coming  —  I'll  frighten  him. 

[She  turns  so  suddenly  that  she  does  frighten  him 
for  a  moment.  He  starts  back,  she  rushes 
forward,  seises  his  arm,  and  tries  to  wrench 
the  poker  from  him.  Just  as  she  feels  that 
the  struggle  is  useless,  she  hears  a  step  out- 
side. The  bell  rings. 

STELLA   (loudly}.     Jack!  come  here!     Quick! 
CAPTAIN  D.  (strides  forward}.     Stella!    What  the 

devil !  —    Here,  you  little  beggar 

[He  flings  the  man  aside,  but  keeps  a  tight  hold 

of  him. 

STELLA.     He  has  stolen  my  silver  things  and  he 
was  just  going  to  murder  me  with  that  poker.     Le 
him  go,  Jack!     For  Heaven's  sake,  let  him  go  —  out 
of  my  sight! 

CAPTAIN  D.  I  ought  to  give  him  in  charge.  How- 
ever—  here,  where  are  the  things  you've  stolen?  Is 
that  all,  Stella?  Then,  get  out! 

STELLA  (when  CAPTAIN  DARESHAM  returns}.  Oh! 
Jack,  did  you  hurt  him? 


A   SKY   SIGN  299 

CAPTAIN  D.     I  hope  so. 

STELLA.  I  must  buy  a  pistol  and  a  dagger  and 
keep  them  within  reach. 

[A  long  silence. 

STELLA.     Why  did  you  come  back,  Jack? 
CAPTAIN  D.    Why  did  you  let  that  blackguard  in? 
STELLA.    I  thought  it  was  you.    I  flew  to  the  door, 

and 

CAPTAIN  D.     Oh!  you  thought  it  was  me  and  you 
flew  to  the  door !    Then  you  wanted  me  to  come  back  ? 
STELLA.    I'm  always  glad  to  see  you. 
CAPTAIN  D.    (gravely).     Look  here,  Stella.     You 
mustn't  play  with  me  any  longer ;  it's  not  good  enough 
for  either  of  us;  either  I  go,  altogether,  or  I  stay, 
and  we  get  married  at  once.     Which  is  it  to  be? 

STELLA  (smiling  and  putting  her  hand  in  his).  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean  by  "  at  once,"  Jack ;  but 
if  you  object  to  machine-stitching,  as  I  do,  your  hand- 
sewn  things  take —  You  never  let  me  finish  a  sen- 
tence ! 

[MARY  is  heard  letting  herself  in  at  the  outside 
door,  and  speaking  to  some  one  else  there. 
A  moment  later  FLORA  HATHAWAY  walks  in 
without  announcement.  She  perceives  that 
she  should  not  have  done  so. 
FLORA.  I  forgot  my —  Oh! 


WALL-PAPERS 


The  drawing-room  in  an  unfurnished  house.  There 
are  two  large  books  of  sample  wall-papers  on  the 
broad  window-seat.  In  front  of  these  is  a  plank 
on  trestles.  MR.  JOHN  ELIOT  and  Miss  CYNTHIA 
CAPEL  are  sitting  on  the  plank  and  looking  at  the 
wall-papers. 

MR.  E.  That  one  isn't  half  bad.  It  would  light 
up  well  and  look  cheerful. 

CYNTHIA.     Cheerful ! 

MR.  E.  Bless  me,  Cynthia!  We  want  our  house 
to  be  cheerful,  I  suppose! 

CYNTHIA.  What  you  call  cheerful  I  call  depress- 
ing. 

MR.  E.    That's  unfortunate,  isn't  it? 

CYNTHIA.  I  could  not  live  in  a  room  that  jumped 
at  you. 

MR.  E.    I  shouldn't  like  it  myself. 

CYNTHIA.  Now  that  design  I  showed  you  yester- 
day . . . 

MR.  E.  Don't  speak  of  it.  Rows  of  roses  as  big 
as  cabbages  and  the  colour  of  blotting-paper.  Have 

300 


WALL-PAPERS  301 

it  by  all  means,  if  that's  what  you  like,  but  don't 
expect  me  to  sit  in  the  room. 

CYNTHIA.  I'm  afraid  there  won't  be  a  room  in 
the  house  we  can  sit  in  together.  Surely  we  shall 
find  that  inconvenient. 

MR.  E.     What's  the  matter  with  the  dining-room? 

CYNTHIA.  There  would  have  been  nothing  the 
matter  with  it  if  you  had  left  it  to  me.  Aunt  Sabrina 
recommended  that  beautiful  carpet. . . 

MR.  E.  I  draw  the  line  at  a  mustard-coloured 
carpet.  You've  got  yellow  curtains  in  there,  and  very 
odd  they'll  look.  Red's  the  colour  for  a  dining-room. 

CYNTHIA.     What  an  early  Victorian  idea! 

MR.  E.  And,  by  the  way,  Cynthia,  I  went  into 
Bunthorn's  yesterday  and  saw  the  chairs  you'd  chosen, 
and  I  said  I'd  speak  to  you  about  them.  They  won't 
do,  you  know.  And  where's  the  sense  of  a  board  on 
trestles,  instead  of  a  properly  made  table?  I'm  not 
a  mediaeval  baron. 

CYNTHIA.     No;  but  you  can  try  to  live  like  one. 

MR.  E.  Perhaps  you'd  like  your  floor  strewn  with 
rushes  and  lighted  by  torches. 

CYNTHIA.  I  should.  Even  a  suburban  drawing- 
room  in  the  nineteenth  century  might  look  beautiful 
by  torchlight. 

MR.  E.  Well,  we'd  better  get  back  to  our  papers. 
Dawkins  will  be  here  directly.  He  said  five  o'clock. 
How  about  this  one?  Poppies. 

[CYNTHIA  starts  so  hastily  to  her  feet  that  her 


302  WALL-PAPERS 

skirt  catches  the  corner  of  the  plank  and  pulls 
it  from  the  trestles.  MR.  ELIOT  jumps  up 
too.  The  plank  falls  on  the  floor  with  a  good 
deal  of  noise. 

MR.  E.  What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  afternoon, 
Cynthia  ? 

CYNTHIA.  I  might  ask  that  of  you,  I  think.  Pop- 
pies! 

[MR.  ELIOT  stares  at  her  as  if  he  really  thinks 

she  has  taken  leave  of  her  senses. 
CYNTHIA.     Have  you  quite  forgotten  that  a  year 
ago  you  were  nearly . . .  engaged ...  to  a  Poppy  ? 

MR.  E.  (firmly).  I  had  quite  forgotten  it  at  the 
moment.  I  generally  do  when  I  am  with  you,  and 
it  was  never  the  near  thing  you  make  out. 

CYNTHIA.  But  you  want  to  surround  me  with 
flowers  that  will  constantly  recall  her. 

MR.  E.  They  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Be- 
sides, she's  married. 

CYNTHIA.    What  has  that  to  do  with  it? 
MR.  E.    Really,  Cynthia,  if  you  can't  trust  me  not 
to  philander  after  married  women  — 

CYNTHIA,    (teasingly) .     Yes. .  .if ..  .what  then? 
MR.  E.    Oh!  never  mind.    Come,  choose  this  wall- 
paper. 

CYNTHIA.  Aunt  Sabrina  says  a  woman  ought  to 
die  rather  than  marry  a  man  who  does  not  swear 
she  is  his  first  and  only  love.  Could  you  swear  that, 
Jack,  to  Aunt  Sabrina? 


WALL-PAPERS  303 

MR.  E.  My  dear  Cynthia,  at  the  present  moment 
I  feel  more  inclined  to  swear  at  Aunt  Sabrina. 

CYNTHIA.  Oh !  if  you  are  going  to  call  me  "  My 
dear  Cynthia"  in  that  voice... as  if  we  had  been 
married  for  years . . .  (  To  herself. )  And  we  have  only 
been  here  half-an-hour. .  .but  it  is  very  quiet  and  dull 
in  this  room. .  .Aunt  Sabrina  is  quite  right. . .  (Aloud.) 
Jack !  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  don't  want 
to  go  to  the  Lakes. 

MR.  E.  (vexed).  But  it's  all  settled.  I've  engaged 
our  rooms  at  that  little  inn  on  Ullswater,  and  my 
fishing-tackle  is  ready,  and  it  was  you  who  proposed 
it  and  planned  it ...  walking  and  boating  and  fishing 
all  day . . .  and  in  the  evenings  you're  going  to  read 
Browning  to  me,  and  try  to  make  me  like  him. 

CYNTHIA.  I'm  afraid  if  we  walk  all  day  we  shall 
be  too  sleepy  for  Browning. 

MR.  E.  Then  we'll  sit  in  a  boat  all  day.  Anything 
to  please  you. 

CYNTHIA.  I  think  Paris  would  suit  us  better.  I 
could  go  to  the  Louvre,  and  you'd  have  the  boule- 
vards and  cafes  and  things.  I'm  afraid  Ullswater 
will  bore  you. 

MR.  E.  Oh !  if  you  want  to  spend  your  honey- 
moon in  a  big  shop . . .  why  not  take  rooms  near  White- 
ley's? 

CYNTHIA.  ! ! !  (Pause.)  I  meant  the  museum,  not 
the  shop. 

MR.  E.  (not  as  much  abashed  as  he  should  be).    I 


304  WALL-PAPERS 

dare  say  the  shop  would  have  a  look  in,  too.  I  sup- 
pose you're  as  fond  of  chiffons  as  most  girls.  I 
hope  so. 

CYNTHIA.  I  don't  know  why  you  should  either  sup- 
pose or  hope  that  I  am  a  mere  empty-headed  doll. 

[MR.  E.  says  something  quite  inarticulate. 

CYNTHIA  (sighing).  Aunt  Sabrina  is  staying 
with  us. 

MR.  E.     I  might  have  guessed  it. 

CYNTHIA.  I  don't  know  how.  She  came  quite 
unexpectedly  yesterday. 

MR.  E.  I  shall  be  glad  when  you  have  seen  the 
last  of  her. 

CYNTHIA.  What  can  you  mean,  Jack?  Do  you 
propose  to  forbid  my  friends  the  house? 

MR.  E.     Not  your  friends. 

CYNTHIA.  Aunt  Sabrina  is  my  dearest  friend.  She 
is  so  sympathetic.  She  is  always  perfectly  miserable 
about  other  people. 

MR.  E.     Who  is  she  miserable  about  now? 

CYNTHIA.     Me. 

MR.  E.     Rather  unnecessary,  isn't  it? 

CYNTHIA.     I  don't  know. 

MR.  E.  You  don't  know!... and  our  wedding  is 
to-morrow  week ! 

CYNTHIA.  Aunt  Sabrina  says  it  is  such  a  mistake 
to  marry  young.  She  says  if  we  waited  five  or  six 
years  we  might  like  some  one  quite  different  at  the 
end  of  the  time. 


WALL-PAPERS  305 

MR.  E.  Very  likely . . .  But  we're  not  going  to  make 
the  experiment. 

CYNTHIA.  We  should  know  each  other  better  if 
we  waited.  When  Mr.  Allpress  proposed  to  Mabel, 
Aunt  Sabrina  told  him  to  come  again  in  two  years. 

MR.  E.    Yes,  and  you  know  what  happened. 

CYNTHIA.  Mabel  found  out  that  Mr.  Allpress  did 
not  really  care  for  her.  Aunt  Sabrina  says  it  was  a 
most  lucky  escape. 

MR.  E.     Does  Mabel  see  it  in  that  light? 

CYNTHIA.  No.  She  droops,  poor  dear.  I'm  afraid 
she  doesn't  quite  understand  or  value  her  mother. 

MR.  E.  (laughs  rather  unkindly).  Allpress  told 
me  the  whole  story.  He  got  sick  of  waiting,  or  of 
Aunt  Sabrina's  little  ways,  and  married  some  one  else. 
I  don't  blame  him  much. 

CYNTHIA.    If  you  mean  that  for  a  threat,  Jack 

MR.  E.  Why,  dearest  girl,  I  mean  nothing.. .  .But 
I  shan't  keep  my  temper  much  longer. 

CYNTHIA.  I  sometimes  think  Aunt  Sabrina  is  right. 
It  is  a  great  mistake  to  marry  at  all,  and  to  marry 
a  man  who  can't  even  keep  his  temper  might  be  most 
unpleasant.  Aunt  Sabrina  says 

MR.  E.     Damn  Aunt  Sabrina! 

CYNTHIA.  She  says  that  if  I  broke  off  my  engage- 
ment to  you  she  would  go  back  to  Little  Steeple  happy. 
(Plays  with  the  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left 
hand.) 

MR.    E.      Very    well,    Cynthia.      You   must   decide 


306  WALL-PAPERS 

whether  you  will  make  me  happy  or  Aunt  Sabrina. 
You  evidently  can't  please  us  both. 

CYNTHIA.     And  you  are  indifferent? 

MR.  E.  (stiffly).  You  do  what  you  can  to  make 
me  so. 

CYNTHIA  (takes  off  her  ring).  You  leave  me  no 
choice. 

[A  loud  knock  at  the  front  door. 

MR.  E.     There's  Dawkins.     (Rushes  out.) 

CYNTHIA.  Aunt  Sabina  is  quite  right.  He  doesn't 
care  for  me.  If  I  did,  he  would  see  how  much  —  how 
very  much  —  I  care  for  him.  I'm  sure  I've  done  all 
I  can  this  afternoon  to  show  it. 

[MR.  ELIOT  conies  back,  accompanied  by  MR. 
DAWKINS,  a  thick  set,  middle-aged  man,  with 
a  strong  Cockney  accent. 

DAWKINS.  I'd  oughter  order  that  droring-room 
pyper  to-night  if  the  'ouse  is  to  be  ready  by  the 
sixteenth,  and  I  did  sy  the  sixteenth,  and  when  I  sy 
a  thing  I  loike  to  do  it.  Of  course,  if  the  pyper  isn't 
chosen . . .  now  that  one  would  'ang  well,  Miss.  Good 
bold  design  I  call  it ...  no  one  would  come  away  and 
sy  they  'adn't  noticed  your  pyper. 

CYNTHIA  smiles  faintly,  but  does  not  speak. 

DAWKINS  (taking  a  long  envelope  out  of  his  pocket). 
'Ere's  the  agreement,  sir.  I've  signed  it. 

MR.  E.  Oh,  of  course. .  .the  agreement.  I  suppose 
if  I  sign  that,  the  house  is  mine  for  three  years. 
(Glances  at  CYNTHIA.) 


WALL-PAPERS  30; 

DAWKINS.  Just  as  we  arranged  it,  sir.  You'll  find 
it's  all  right.  You  can  sign  it  now,  if  you  like,  and 
this  young  lady  can  witness  it.  Save  you  the  trouble 
of  posting  it.  I've  got  a  fountain  pen  in  my 
pocket. 

MR.  E.  Oh !  have  you  ?  I've  often  thought  of 
getting  one  myself.  (Takes  the  paper  and  unfolds  it, 
and  pretends  to  read  it.) 

DAWKINS  (handing  him  the  pen).  'Ere  you 
are,  sir.  Just  there,  if  you  please;  and  the  young 
lydy's  nyme  beneath  yours.  You  see  it's  all  right, 
sir.  We've  put  in  that  there  clause  "  in  case  of 
fire." 

MR.  E.  Very  well,  Mr.  Dawkins,  I'll  just  glance 
through  it.  By  the  way,  I'm  afraid  there's  something 
wrong  with  the  hot-water  cistern  on  the  top  landing. 
I  wish  you'd  have  a  look  at  it. 

DAWKINS.  There's  nothing  wrong  with  no  cisterns 
in  this  'ouse,  sir.  But  I'll  have  a  look.  (Goes.) 

MR.  E.     Well,  Cynthia?     Am  I  to  sign  it? 

CYNTHIA.     Are  you  obliged  to,  Jack? 

MR.  E.  (to  himself).  Jack,  indeed. .  .and  her  usual 
voice.  Then  it's  all  right  after  all.  (Aloud.)  It 
comes  to  that.  I've  agreed  to  take  it,  and  half  the 
decorations  are  done.  Well,  you  knozv. 

CYNTHIA.     You  can't  live  in  it  by  yourself. 

MR.  E.     Certainly  not. 

CYNTHIA.     What  a  pity  you  have  no  sisters! 

MR.  E.  (looks  at  her,  takes  a  sudden  resolution,  and 


308  WALL-PAPERS 

affixes  his  signature  to  the  deed.  Then  he  hands 
the  pen  to  CYNTHIA).  Write  your  name  there,  Cyn- 
thia. 

CYNTHIA  (writing}.  But  now  the  house  is  yours, 
and  you  must  live  in  it. 

MR.  E.     Or  sub-let  it. 

CYNTHIA.  It  isn't  every  one's  house.  It  just  suited 
us,  but 

MR.  E.     Then  come  and  live  in  it. 

CYNTHIA.     Oh,  Jack!     I  want  to. 

MR.  E.  Have  scarlet  wall-papers  and  orange 
carpets . . . 

CYNTHIA.  I  don't  mind  what  we  have  if  only  I 
can  be  here  —  with  you.  I'm  so  glad  you  asked  me 
—  and  we'll  go  to  Ullswater  and  not  to  Paris. 

MR.  E.    We  might  manage  both. 

CYNTHIA.  I  don't  care  about  Paris;  but  Aunt 
Sabrina  said  that  if  we  went  to  a  quiet  place  you'd 
hate  me  in  a  week. 

MR.  E.  My  dear  girl,  I'll  buy  you  what  you  please, 
and  go  where  you  please,  and  say  what  you  please. 
But- 

CYNTHIA  (meekly}.    Yes,  Jack. 

MR.  E.  Don't  quote  Aunt  Sabrina.  She  nearly 
parted  us  this  afternoon.  Sh !  take  care  —  here's  this 
old  god  out  of  the  machine  who  joined  us  together 
again.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  agreement  —  Well, 
Mr.  Dawkins? 

DAWKINS   (scornfully}.     What  did  you  think  was 


WALL-PAPERS  309 

the  matter  with  that  there  'ot-water  cistern,  sir?  I've 
examined  it  most  careful 

MR.  E.  Oh  —  well  —  there's  no  hot  water  in  it, 
you  know 

DAWKINS  (after  a  prolonged  sniff}.  If  you've 
signed  that  agreement,  sir,  I'll  write  to  the  water  com- 
pany, and  they'll  turn  the  water  on,  and  then  there'll 
be  some  water  in  it.  It  won't  be  'ot  then,  sir,  not  till 
you  light  the  kitchen  fire. 

MR.  E.     I  suppose  not. 

DAWKINS  (confidentially  to  CYNTHIA).  Thought 
the  gentleman  might  expect  it.  He'll  know  a  little 
more  about  cisterns  soon,  when  'e's  lived  in  this  'ouse 
a  bit.  (Going  towards  the  book  of  wall-papers.)  Now 
this  'ere  pyper,  if  I  might  recommend  it  —  very  tysty 
I  call  those  magenta  dysies . . . 


MRS.    SPETTIGUE 


WHEN  Mr.  Spettigue,  the  Vicar  of  Potley,  went  to 
Switzerland  for  his  summer  holiday,  Mrs.  Spettigue 
of  course  went  with  him.  She  knew  that  the  parish 
would  go  to  pieces  in  her  absence,  but  she  also  knew 
that  when  she  came  back  she  could  soon  put  it  to- 
gether again.  Anyhow,  it  is  a  wife's  duty  to  remain 
at  her  husband's  side,  even  when  an  unpatriotic  doctor 
has  ordered  him  out  of  the  British  Isles  for  the  time. 
Mrs.  Spettigue  did  not  believe  for  a  moment  that  any 
"  foreign  "  air  was  equal  to  the  air  of  Potley.  But, 
though  it  flutters  its  own  flag,  Switzerland  is  invaded 
and  occupied  by  the  English  every  summer,  and  you 
may  spend  August  in  one  of  the  right  hotels  without 
meeting  as  many  foreigners  as  you  would  find  most 
days  in  a  hotel  near  Charing  Cross.  The  Spettigues 
were  recommended  to  one  at  Griinegg  by  a  friend 
who  had  taken  the  Sunday  services  there  the  year 
before.  He  said  he  had  greatly  enjoyed  his  stay  and 
had  hardly  once  realised  that  he  was  abroad  at  all. 
He  also  mentioned  that  the  Bishop  of  Rye  spent  a 
fortnight  at  Grunegg  every  August,  and  that  he  put 
up  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre. 

310 


MRS.    SPETTIGUE  311 

On  hearing  this  Mrs.  Spettigue  went  to  the  best 
shop  in  Ashfield,  the  nearest  big  town,  and  bought  a 
handsome  bonnet  made  of  black  sequins  and  trimmed 
with  upstanding  feathers.  She  had  not  been  to  Ash- 
field  for  a  long  while,  because  two  years  ago  there 
had  been  a  very  serious  and  disgraceful  bank  crash 
there,  and  Mr.  Spettigue  had  lost  a  hundred  pounds 
by  it.  He  had  no  children  and  was  well  off,  so  he 
did  not  feel  the  loss  much;  but  Mrs.  Spettigue  took 
it  very  hard,  and  said  that  a  town  in  which  such  people 
as  the  Eliots  could  prosper  was  not  the  town  for  the 
wife  of  the  Vicar  of  Potley;  and  she  consistently 
carried  her  custom  to  Elm  ford  as  long  as  it  was 
convenient  to  do  so.  But  the  Ashfield  milliners  were 
superior  to  the  Elmford  milliners,  and  when  it  came 
to  a  bonnet  that  might  make  an  impression  on  the 
Bishop  of  Rye,  Mrs.  Spettigue  said  Christians  must 
not  be  vindictive,  and  took  a  train  to  Ashfield  the 
same  afternoon.  For  if  the  Bishop  liked  the  bonnet 
and  Mr.  Spettigue  he  might  be  persuaded  to  offer 
Mr.  Spettigue  the  adjacent  living  of  Nuthall  which 
had  just  fallen  vacant.  The  drawing-room  at  Nuthall 
was  twice  the  size  of  the  drawing-room  at  Potley, 
and  the  drive  had  a  self-respecting  sweep,  and  the 
squire,  who  lived  close  by,  had  married  the  second 
cousin  of  a  duke,  a  lady  devoted,  like  Mrs.  Spettigue 
herself,  to  good  works  and  the  improvement  of  other 
people,  Mrs.  Spettigue  thought  that  life  at  Nuthall 
wou!4  guit  her  exactly.  Before  she  started  for  Swit- 


312  MRS.    SPETTIGUE 

zerland  she  paid  a  farewell  call  at  the  rectory,  and 
had  a  good  look  at  the  shape  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  A  new  carpet  would  be  necessary,"  she  murmured 
to  her  husband  as  they  drove  away.  "  In  fact,  we 
should  probably  spend  about  a  hundred  pounds  on 
settling  in  —  just  what  those  wicked,  thievish  Eliots 
stole  from  us.  Some  one  told  me  the  other  day  that 
the  son  was  out  of  prison.  The  spirit  of  leniency 
that  prevails  nowadays  is  a  direct  encouragement  to 
sin." 

The  journey  to  Switzerland  was,  of  course,  un- 
pleasant. Mrs.  Spettigue  had  never  been  out  of  Eng- 
land before,  and  many  little  things  annoyed  and  sur- 
prised her.  She  said  she  would  make  the  conduct  of 
the  frontier  officials  with  regard  to  her  dressing-bag 
the  subject  of  an  international  inquiry;  and  she  was 
really  rude  to  two  German  officers  who  travelled  in 
her  compartment  and  began  to  smoke  in  her  presence. 
As  they  were  in  uniform  she  took  them  for  privates, 
and  ordered  her  husband  to  turn  them  out  of  the 
carriage;  but  it  happened  that  they  spoke  English  and 
were  gentlemen,  and  they  threw  away  their  cigars 
and  explained  to  the  poor  little  mouse  of  a  parson 
that  they  did  so  to  please  his  wife,  and  that  they  had 
a  right  to  be  where  they  were  and  smoke  if  they 
pleased.  They  did  not  meet  with  much  gratitude  from 
Mrs.  Spettigue.  She  detested  soldiers. 

In  Griinegg  the  vicar's  wife  soon  felt  at  home. 
There  was  a  pleasant  society  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre, 


MRS.    SPETTIGUE  313 

and  Mrs.  Spettigue  found  that  a  determined  woman 
might  govern  it  as  easily  as  she  governed  her  hus- 
band's parish.  She  led  the  conversation,  and  organ- 
ised expeditions,  and  checked  the  advances  of  foreign- 
ers, and  took  care  that  people  were  treated  according 
to  their  deserts.  At  Potley  accidental  advantages,  like 
brains  or  wit  or  beauty,  did  not  count,  and  Mrs. 
Spettigue  made  more  of  Sir  Lucas  Bunn,  the  notorious 
and  successful  company  promoter,  who  had  lately 
bought  Ashfield  Towers  and  furnished  it  from  kitchen 
to  garret,  than  she  did  of  Mr.  Aspland,  a  mere  well- 
known  war  correspondent.  In  London  Mr.  Aspland 
was  welcome  in  houses  that  refused  to  receive  Sir 
Lucas  Bunn;  but  London  is  not  Potley,  and  its  hall- 
mark was  always  carefully  ignored  by  Mrs.  Spettigue. 
"  He  may  be  the  best  war  correspondent  in  Europe," 
she  said  to  Sir  Lucas,  "  but  I  am  told  that  his  uncle 
has  a  chemist's  shop.  In  Potley  we  judge  people 
by  their  station  in  life.  Any  other  test  I  consider 
irreligious." 

Of  course  Mrs.  Spettigue  had  found  out  when  the 
Bishop  was  expected,  and  which  rooms  he  and  his 
chaplain  would  occupy,  and  where  his  meals  would 
be  served;  and  as  the  time  of  his  visit  drew  near 
she  became  rather  restless,  and  with  regard  to  the 
guests  at  her  table  more  inclined  than  ever  to  winnow 
the  chaff  from  the  grain.  In  the  dining-room  she 
always  sat  at  the  head  of  the  long  centre  table,  and 
the  English  guests  she  countenanced  gathered  near 


3H  MRS.    SPETTIGUE 

her  on  either  side.  There  were  other  tables,  and  other 
people  eating  at  them,  if  you  allow  that  foreigners 
are  people.  Mrs.  Spettigue  honestly  doubted  it.  She 
had  been  told  that  the  Bishop  and  his  chaplain  always 
dined  by  themselves  in  a  private  sitting-room,  but  she 
hoped  for  a  more  sociable  arrangement  this  year. 

"  I  shall  point  out  to  his  lordship  that  a  shepherd 
should  mix  with  his  sheep,"  she  said,  never  doubting 
that  her  platitudes  would  please  and  instruct  the 
Bishop. 

Her  own  place  in  the  picture  was,  of  course,  at  his 
lordship's  elbow,  advising  and  informing  him  which 
sheep  were  white  and  which  black,  and  which  an  un- 
certain drab.  By  this  time  she  knew  the  staying 
guests  in  the  hotel  as  well  as  she  knew  the  cottagers 
of  Potley,  and  she  had  even  learned  to  gauge  new 
arrivals  quickly,  and  decide  whether  or  not  they  were 
eligible  for  "  her  table."  One  evening  an  English 
honeymoon  couple  arrived  on  the  mountain  top,  tired 
with  their  walk,  well-dressed,  pleasant  to  behold.  The 
man  held  himself  like  a  soldier,  and  was  strongly 
built  and  tall.  His  wife  had  those  most  charming 
eyes  that  shut  a  little  when  they  laugh,  and  laugh 
often.  Mrs.  Spettigue  was  in  the  hall  when  they 
arrived,  but  as  they  had  no  luggage  with  them  she 
did  not  find  out  their  name  that  evening.  She  hunted 
up  the  head  waiter,  and  told  him  to  put  the  newcomers 
at  her  table;  and  at  supper,  though  they  sat  some 
way  off,  she  addressed  them  several  times,  and  asked 


MRS.    SPETTIGUE  315 

them  if  they  would  help  with  a  concert  she  wished 
to  organise  in  order  to  pay  for  the  publication  in 
Dutch  and  English  of  two  tracts  against  strong  drink 
and  tobacco,  written  by  her  husband,  for  equal  dis- 
tribution in  South  Africa  amongst  our  godless  and 
profligate  soldiery  and  our  fellow-Christians  the  Boers. 
Mrs.  Spettigue  never  tried  to  find  out  whether  the 
people  she  harangued  were  likely  to  agree  with  her; 
indeed,  she  had  never  asked  herself  whether  there 
was  any  one  in  the  world  worth  considering  who 
did  not. 

But  next  day  the  young  people  found  their  places 
set  at  a  side  table  opposite  a  German  professor  and 
his  wife.  They  made  no  objection  at  the  time,  for 
their  new  neighbours  were  more  amiable  and  enter- 
taining and  better  bred  than  Mrs.  Spettigue.  But 
afterwards  it  occurred  to  them  that  they  were  the  only 
English  people  in  the  hotel  who  sat  beside  foreign- 
ers, and  by  the  time  they  had  been  in  the  hotel  a 
week  they  were  both  alive  to  the  unpleasant  fact  that 
their  country  folk  made  every  effort  to  avoid  them. 
As  they  were  on  their  wedding  journey  and  were  in 
love  with  each  other  they  were,  of  course,  not  anxious 
for  society ;  but  even  honey-mooners  do  not  wish  to 
be  shunned  as  if  they  were  infectious  or  criminal. 

"  Sir  Lucas  Bunn  turned  his  back  on  me  to-day," 
said  the  husband ;  "  at  home  I  should  turn  my  back 
on  Sir  Lucas  Bunn." 

"  I  was  sorry  I  did  not  come  with  you  this  morning," 


316  MRS.   SPETTIGUE 

said  his  wife.  "  I  went  into  the  woods  at  the  back 
of  the  hotel  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  Mrs. 
Spettigue  and  Miss  Nixey.  Directly  I  did  so  Mrs. 
Spettigue  tossed  her  head  and  said,  '  We  didn't  bar- 
gain for  this,'  and  they  got  up  and  walked  away. 
Then  I  met  Poppy  Beyer,  and  asked  her  to  play 
croquet,  but  she  refused  —  rather  uncivilly  I  thought 
—  and  five  minutes  later  I  saw  her  playing  with  that 
pasty-faced  schoolmaster  and  his  wife.  It  really  isn't 
fancy  as  you  said  at  first,  Jack.  They  stare  at  us, 
and  they  whisper  about  us,  and  they  leave  us  out. 
There  must  be  some  mistake,  and  we  ought  to  set  it 
right.  Of  course  it  is  absurd  and  unimportant,  but 
at  the  moment  it  is  disagreeable.  Here  comes  poor 
little  Mr.  Spettigue,  and  there  is  Mr.  Nixey  just 
behind  him.  Can't  you  get  hold  of  one  or  the  other?  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can,"  said  Jack  doubtfully. 

Nevertheless,  as  Mr.  Spettigue  toddled  their  way, 
Jack  got  up,  and  his  wife  watched  the  two  men  ap- 
proach each  other.  She  saw  the  wizened  vicar  glance 
one  way  and  another,  and  suddenly  swerve,  and  then 
trot  forward  again  to  a  distant  corner  of  the  terrace 
where  his  wife  sat  with  some  of  her  friends.  Jack 
strolled  slowly  on,  and  soon  met  Mr.  Nixey,  a  good- 
humoured  self-important  person,  the  mayor  of  a  small 
manufacturing  town.  He  looked  uncomfortable,  but 
he  plodded  on  past  Jack,  and  took  no  notice  at  all  of 
the  young  man's  salutation.  So  Jack  returned  to  his 
wife,  and  the  words  he  used  may  be  easily  imagined. 


MRS.    SPETTIGUE  317 

"  Mrs.  Spettigue  is  excited  about  something,"  said 
Jack's  wife.  "  She  is  scolding  her  husband,  and  point- 
ing at  us.  Shall  we  leave  to-night,  Jack?  It  is  really 
unpleasant  here.  Shall  we  come  upstairs  now  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jack,  "  I've  just  ordered  coffee,  and 
we'll  have  it  here,  and  we'll  keep  to  our  plans,  and 
these  people  shall  mend  their  manners  or  I'll  know  the 
reason  why." 

"  Mrs.  Spettigue  is  getting  up,"  said  his  wife ;  and 
she  rose  herself  and  looked  alarmed.  "  She  is  coming 
across  the  terrace  —  to  us  —  oh,  Jack !  " 

"  Sit  still,  Mary,"  ordered  her  husband,  half  laugh- 
ing, half  angry. 

So  Mary  sat  down  again,  and  the  young  couple 
waited  while  Mrs.  Spettigue  marched  solemnly  across 
the  broad  gravel  terrace.  When  she  reached  their 
table  she  seated  herself  between  them,  but  they  looked 
at  the  scenery  and  not  at  her,  and  they  did  not  speak. 
Their  apparent  sang-froid  annoyed  her,  and  her  man- 
ner became  more  aggressive. 

"  I  think  your  name  is  Eliot,"  she  said  to  Jack. 

"  It  is,"  said  he. 

"You  come  from  Ashfield  in  shire?" 

"  I  do." 

"  My  husband  is  the  Vicar  of  Potley.  We  do  not 
visit  with  Ashfield  people,  but  we  hear  a  good  deal 
about  them." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"Need  I  say  more?"  asked  Mrs.  Spettigue. 


3i8  MRS.    SPETTIGUE 

"Just  as  you  like,"  said  Jack;  and  then  the  coffee 
arrived  and  made  a  diversion. 

"  It  is  the  sudden  arrival  of  the  Bishop  that  renders 
the  position  so  unpleasant,"  said  Mrs.  Spettigue  when 
the  hotel  servant  had  departed. 

"  Has  the  Bishop  arrived  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Eliot,  look- 
ing up  for  the  first  time. 

"  He  is  walking  up  the  hill,"  said  Mrs.  Spettigue. 
"  The  vicar  met  him  and  hurried  back  to  tell  me. 
He  has  come  a  week  earlier  than  we  expected.  I 
hoped  that  you  might  go,  and  that  I  might  not  be 
forced  to  perform  this  distressing  duty.  But  as  Pot- 
ley  is  so  near  Ashfield,  and  as  I  know  all  about  you 
and  feel  responsible  to  the  Bishop  —  surely  you  see 
—  the  fact  is,  you  ought  never  to  have  come  to  this 
hotel.  I  have  felt  compelled  to  warn  people,  and  they 
have  been  grateful." 

"  The  Bishop  — "  began  Mrs.  Eliot,  but  her  hus- 
band checked  her  with  a  glance  and  spoke  himself. 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  silly,  officious  woman,"  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Spettigue;  and  she  floundered  to  her  feet, 
red  in  the  face,  and  spluttering  with  wrath. 

"  Can  you  deny  that  you  come  straight  from 
prison  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  "  any  one  can  see  it  by  your 
hair."  And  she  turned  her  back  abruptly  on  the  hus- 
band and  wife,  gathered  up  the  little  vicar,  and  hur- 
ried on  to  meet  the  Bishop  who,  she  reckoned,  must 
now  be  near  the  top  of  the  hill. 

Five  minutes  after  she  had  been  presented  to  him 


MRS.   SPETTIGUE  319 

she  was  in  the  midst  of  her  story.  The  Bishop  heard 
of  the  infamous  bank  smash,  and  of  the  vicar's  loss, 
and  of  the  trial  and  the  conviction,  and  of  Mrs.  Spet- 
tigue's  horror  when  the  felon  and  his  wife  arrived  at 
the  hotel,  and  of  Mrs.  Spettigue's  efforts  to  get  rid 
of  them. 

"  But  are  you  quite  sure,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  Eliot 
is  a  common  name,  and  I  myself " 

"  Quite  sure,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Spettigue,  treating 
the  Bishop  as  she  treated  her  husband,  with  firmness 
and  a  spice  of  contempt,  "  the  man  owns  to  it." 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  observed 
the  Bishop. 

"  If  they  have  any  shame  left  they  will  take  them- 
selves off,"  said  Mrs.  Spettigue,  and  when  she  got 
back  to  the  terrace  she  looked  anxiously  ahead. 

"  The  impudence,"  she  gasped,  "  they  are  still  sit- 
ting there,"  and  with  the  point  of  her  parasol  she 
denounced  the  pair.  The  Bishop  stopped  short. 

"  Do  you  say  that  young  man  told  you  he  was  a 
released  convict  ?  "  he  asked ;  and  Mrs.  Spettigue  did 
not  like  his  tone  at  all. 

"James  Eliot,  the  son  of  the  fraudulent  bankrupt, 
his  father's  accomplice,"  she  murmured. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  Bishop ;  "  that  young  man  is 
John  Eliot,  and  he  is  a  captain  in  the  -  — shire  Fusi- 
liers, quartered  for  some  time  now  in  Ashfield,  and 
three  weeks  ago  he  married  my  niece ;  and  her  brother 
is  the  new  rector  of  Nuthall." 


320  MRS.    SPETTIGUE 

Mrs.  Spettigue's  knees  gave  way  under  these  re- 
peated shocks,  and  she  clung  for  once  in  her  life  to 
her  husband's  arm. 

"And  I've  told  every  one  in  the  hotel,"  she  whis- 
pered to  herself. 

Meanwhile  the  Bishop  had  gone  forward,  and  had 
been  greeted  by  his  niece  and  her  husband.  After  a 
time  they  all  came  up  to  the  Spettigues. 

"  Let  me  introduce  Captain  Eliot  and  my  niece,  Mrs. 
Eliot,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  he  spoke  severely.  But 
Mrs.  Eliot's  eyes  were  laughing,  and  she  offered  Mrs. 
Spettigue  her  hand.  Captain  Eliot  twisted  his  mous- 
tache and  looked  away. 

"  You  were  quite  right  about  Jack's  hair,"  said  Mrs. 
Eliot.  "  Any  one  would  think  to  look  at  him  that  he 
wished  to  be  taken  for  a  convict." 

Mrs.  Spettigue  made  some  kind  of  lame  apology, 
but  she  insisted  on  leaving  Grunegg  that  evening.  As 
Nuthall  had  gone,  the  favour  of  the  Bishop  of  Rye  was 
not  at  present  important  to  her,  and  she  was  glad  to 
return  to  Potley  where  no  one  would  presume  to  call 
her  a  woman,  and  where  her  friends  believe  that  the 
air  of  Switzerland  did  not  suit  her,  and  that  society  in 
Swiss  hotels  is  disagreeably  "  mixed." 


WITH  THE  HELP  OF  THE 
COTILLON 


THE  Greenfields  always  gave  a  dance  on  New  Year's 
Eve,  and  whether  it  was  the  fashion  or  not  they 
invariably  danced  the  cotillon  after  supper.  Mrs. 
Greenfield  was  a  German,  and  knew  exactly  how  to 
choose  and  provide  for  the  elaborate  figures.  Indeed, 
there  were  few  events  for  which  Mrs.  Greenfield  could 
not  provide.  In  her  house  her  word  was  law.  Mr. 
Greenfield,  of  course,  did  not  dispute  it,  nor  did  the 
children,  nor  did  even  the  servants.  The  only  person 
who  ever  showed  an  inclination  to  rebel  was  her 
daughter  Pamela. 

This  young  lady  had  grown  up  the  image  of  her 
mother.  She  had  the  same  grey  eyes,  firm  mouth,  and 
strong,  light  figure.  Among  her  companions  she  was 
a  leading  spirit.  At  home  she  showed  herself  ready 
to  organise  little  rebellions  and  lead  the  way  to  victory. 
When  she  came  home  from  school,  Mrs.  Greenfield 
settled  in  her  own  mind  that  Pamela  must  marry  at 
once.  No  sooner  had  she  arrived  at  this  conclusion 
than  she  fixed  on  the  right  man,  and  even  on  the  occa- 
sion when  he  should  declare  himself.  Mr.  James 

321 


322      WITH  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON 

Haverstock  had  been  dangling  after  Pamela  ever  since 
her  first  ball,  eight  months  ago.  He  should  dangle 
no  longer.  With  the  help  of  the  cotillon  he  could  easily 
be  brought  to  the  point  on  New  Year's  Eve. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  was  not  the  woman  to  urge  on  a 
reluctant  suitor.  Her  daughter  possessed  both  money 
and  good  looks.  Mr.  Haverstock  had  paid  his  court 
to  Pamela  with  much  persistence,  and  would,  doubt- 
less, have  declared  himself  long  ago  if  he  had  received 
the  encouragement  he  deserved.  But  with  vexatious 
folly  Pamela  fluttered  from  him,  spoke  of  him  mock- 
ingly, said  he  was  bald,  stout,  and  stupid.  As  if  a 
stupid  man  could  make  his  income!  and  as  if  slim 
young  men  were  not  a  step  farther  every  morning 
towards  the  time  when  they,  too,  would  be  bald  and 
stout !  Of  course,  there  was  some  one  with  whom 
Pamela  compared  James  Haverstock  —  to  his  disad- 
vantage. When  she  spoke  of  young  men  in  the  ab- 
stract her  mother  knew  that  she  saw  their  engaging 
qualities  in  a  concrete  specimen  whose  name  was 
Charles  Ludlow,  and  who  had  nothing  but  his  good 
looks  to  recommend  him.  He  had  painted  one  suc- 
cessful picture,  and  the  art  critics  sometimes  tore  him 
to  pieces  and  sometimes  patted  him  on  the  back.  One 
picture  is  not  much  to  marry  on.  Pamela  said  that  his 
studio  was  crowded  with  masterpieces,  all  of  which 
would  sell  for  immense  sums  when  they  were  finished ; 
and  that  his  friend  on  the  Mayfair  Gossip  had  prom- 
ised to  cut  him  up  so  savagely  that  the  town  would 


WITH  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON      323 

crowd  in  thousands  round  the  fragments.  Mrs. 
Greenfield  sniffed.  She  had  been  born  forty  years 
ago  in  a  small  German  mercantile  town,  where  artists, 
actors,  and  pen-men  were  reckoned  all  together  as 
unstable  and  rather  vagabond.  Her  old  prejudices 
were  as  vigorous  as  her  constitution;  and  Pamela 
understood  quite  clearly  that  her  mother  favoured  Mr. 
Haverstock. 

The  thirty-first  of  December  arrived,  and  all  the 
young  folks  known  to  the  Greenfields  came  to  dance 
the  Old  Year  out  and  the  New  Year  in.  They  danced 
and  they  danced.  Then  they  had  supper  and  drank 
champagne  and  punch,  and  wished  each  other  a  Happy 
New  Year.  They  opened  windows  so  that  they  might 
hear  the  city  bells,  and  some  of  them  stepped  out  on 
the  verandah.  Pamela,  followed  by  Charles  Ludlow, 
went  farther  still.  They  reached  the  garden,  which 
was  moonlit  and  hard-frozen.  They  walked  right 
round  it  very  slowly,  and  then  Pamela  said  she  must 
go  back  and  lead  the  cotillon. 

The  guests  reassembled  in  the  drawing-room,  the 
musicians  resumed  their  posts,  the  servants  carried 
in  the  properties.  The  most  conspicuous  of  these  were 
two  sticks,  each  of  which  had  long  coloured  ribbons 
floating  from  one  end.  There  was  also  a  hand-mir- 
ror, a  sheet,  a  box  of  extra  large  crackers,  a  sofa- 
cushion  stuck  full  of  favours,  and  a  tray  piled  with 
little  bunches  of  hot-house  flowers. 

Pamela  was  to  lead  the  cotillon  with  her  young 


324      tWITH  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON 

German  uncle,  Fritz  Elster.  He  knew  how  to  give  the 
necessary  directions  both  to  the  guests  and  the  mu- 
sicians. There  was  quite  a  sprinkling  of  Germans 
present,  and  the  majority  of  Mrs.  Greenfield's  English 
friends  had  been  at  the  house  on  New  Year's  Eve  be- 
fore. So  the  dance  was  not  likely  to  become  as  flat 
and  spiritless  as  it  sometimes  does  in  England  when 
people  are  not  used  to  its  topsy-turvy  ways.  Pamela 
had  received  her  directions  early  in  the  day.  She  knew 
exactly  what  Mrs.  Greenfield  expected  of  her.  She 
was  to  seize  every  opportunity  of  showing  that  she 
appreciated  Mr.  Haverstock.  He  would  behave  with 
his  accustomed  gallantry,  and  the  sequel  would  prob- 
ably be  in  accordance  with  Mrs.  Greenfield's  wishes. 
Pamela  felt  no  doubt  of  it.  She  knew  better  than  any 
one  how  anxious  her  elderly  suitor  was  to  screw  his 
courage  to  the  sticking-place.  It  had  become  more  and 
more  difficult  lately  to  hold  him  off. 

The  cotillon  began  as  usual  with  a  polonaise.  All  the 
dancers  marched  in  couples  behind  Pamela  and  Uncle 
Fritz,  and,  after  certain  complicated  evolutions,  sat 
down  again.  Then  the  leaders  took  up  the  be-ribboned 
sticks.  Six  young  men  were  invited  to  seize  Pamela's 
ribbons ;  six  girls  were  called  from  the  ranks  by  Uncle 
Fritz.  The  twin  colours  were  to  waltz  together.  Mrs. 
Greenfield,  from  her  position  near  the  door,  looked 
anxiously  at  Pamela's  half-dozen,  and  saw  to  her  vexa- 
tion that  Charles  Ludlow  had  been  chosen,  but  not 
Mr.  Haverstock.  In  the  succeeding  rounds  of  this 


WITH  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON       325 

figure  Pamela,  as  daughter  of  the  house,  was  con- 
stantly asked  to  take  a  part.  So,  when  Mr.  Haver- 
stock  carried  the  ribbons  first  to  her  he  only  imitated 
a  dozen  other  men.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
that  little  attention. 

There  were  one  or  two  figures  after  this  in  which 
Pamela  neglected  her  chances.  Then  she  sat  down 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  a  small  mirror  in  her 
hand,  while  Uncle  Fritz  brought  one  young  man  after 
another  to  stand  behind  her  chair.  If  she  did  not  like 
his  reflection  she  wiped  it  away,  and  he  retired.  A 
little  row  of  rejected  aspirants  were  waiting  aside 
already  when  Mr.  Haverstock  came  forward.  Mrs. 
Greenfield  thought  she  noted  a  slight  accession  of  in- 
terest on  some  faces  as  he  bent  over  the  back  of 
Pamela's  chair  so  that  the  girl  could  see  his  image  in 
the  glass.  For  the  moment  Mrs.  Greenfield  wished 
him  less  portly  and  plain.  But  she  forgot  the  wish  in 
her  immediate  indignation  when  she  beheld  her  daugh- 
ter's conduct.  Pamela  wiped  him  viciously  out  of  the 
glass,  and  then  got  up  to  dance  with  Charles  Ludlow; 
who  strolled  forward  smilingly  and  put  his  arm  round 
Pamela's  waist  as  if  it  belonged  there.  Mrs.  Green- 
field heard  one  or  two  people  call  them  a  handsome 
couple,  and  she  reflected  that  it  is  easy  to  put  a  high 
value  on  good  looks  with  regard  to  a  marriage  in  which 
you  have  no  interest.  She  felt  anxious  and  angry. 
She  knew  Mr.  Haverstock  to  be  a  vain  man,  and  she 
saw  that  he  had  turned  very  glum. 


326      WITH  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON 

But  the  worst  was  still  to  come,  and  for  this  bad 
business  Mrs.  Greenfield  never  forgave  her  brother 
Fritz.  How  could  he  presume  to  introduce  a  figure 
that  she  had  not  sanctioned?  one  that  she  considered 
vulgar,  and,  at  any  rate,  unsuitable  in  an  English 
drawing-room.  If  only  she  could  have  stopped 
him !  But,  although  she  was  tall  enough  to  see  every- 
thing that  went  on,  she  really  stood  behind  a 
close  little  crowd.  She  could  not  push  her  way 
through  or  attract  Fritz's  attention  without  dis- 
turbing people  and  making  more  of  a  fuss  than  she 
liked. 

Fritz  had  thrust  a  little  basket  into  Pamela's  hands, 
and  told  her  in  a  loud  voice  that  she  must  present  it 
to  one  of  the  two  gentlemen  he  would  straightway 
bring  to  her.  With  the  other  she  would  dance.  The 
Germans  looked  on  and  smiled.  Some  of  the  English 
people  were  evidently  puzzled  and,  seeing  this,  that 
blundering,  foolish  Fritz  must  needs  explain  to  them 
that  the  German  idiom  "  to  give  a  basket,"  means,  in 
ordinary  language,  to  dismiss  a  suitor.  He  then  smiled 
amiably  at  his  sister,  readjusted  his  pince-nez,  and 
summoned  Mr.  Haverstock  and  secondly  Charles  Lud- 
low.  Mrs.  Greenfield  could  hardly  believe  that  he 
made  his  choice  by  accident. 

The  two  men  were  certainly  a  great  contrast  to 
each  other,  and  no  one  was  much  surprised  when 
Pamela,  with  a  self-possessed  little  curtsey,  offered 
the  basket  to  Mr.  Haverstock.  But  a  good  many 


WITH  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON       327 

people  would  have  felt  rather  sorry  for  him  if  he  had 
not  been  unwise  enough  to  show  temper.  He  almost 
snarled  at  Pamela;  he  threw  the  basket  back  to  Fritz 
instead  of  dancing  round  with  it  as  by  rights  he  should 
have  done,  and  he  strutted  back  to  his  place  muttering 
that  he  had  played  the  fool  enough  for  one  night. 
Perhaps  he  had.  At  any  rate,  it  is  not  unnatural  that 
a  portly,  middle-aged  man  should  object  to  waltz  with 
a  basket  for  a  partner.  Mr.  Haverstock  left  the  house 
a  little  later  in  a  furious  temper,  and  with  the  lowest 
opinion  of  foreign  pastimes. 

There  were  several  new  figures  after  this,  all  of 
which  gave  Charles  and  Pamela  their  opportunities.. 
By  the  time  the  last  round  came,  every  one  in  the 
room  knew  which  coat  would  sport  Pamela's  favour, 
and  which  hand  would  accept  Charles  Ludlow's  bunch 
of  flowers.  At  the  finish,  when  each  couple  had  taken 
their  turn  in  this  popular  figure,  there  was  one  favour 
left,  and  one  bunch  of  flowers.  The  guests  looked  at 
Pamela.  Pamela  looked  at  Uncle  Fritz.  Then,  as  he 
signed  to  the  musicians  to  strike  up  again,  she  tripped 
to  the  denuded  sofa-cushion,  possessed  herself  of  the 
solitary  favour,  and  pinned  it  on  Charles  Ludlow's 
coat.  He  presented  her  with  the  flowers.  They 
whispered,  nodded  to  each  other  smilingly,  and  danced 
down  the  room  to  Mrs.  Greenfield.  Other  couples 
had  arisen  and  were  joining  in  the  final  waltz.  Amid 
the  hubbub  the  two  young  people  could  speak  to  the 
mistress  of  the  house  unheard. 


328      WITH  HELP  OF  THE  COTILLON 

"  The  cotillon  has  been  a  great  success,"  said  Charles 
Ludlow. 

"  I  think  it  has  been  a  great  failure,"  said  Mrs. 
Greenfield. 

"  I  am  engaged  to  be  married,  mamma,"  whispered 
Pamela. 

"  To  the  wrong  man,"  said  her  mother. 

"  That's  a  matter  of  taste,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  You  will  consent  ? "  murmured  Charles  Ludlow 
imploringly. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  looked  at  them  severely.  "  Mr. 
Haverstock  has  just  told  me  that  he  means  to  take 
a  trip  around  the  world,"  she  said.  "  He  expects  to 
stay  away  three  years." 

And  it  did  not  strike  the  young  people  she  addressed 
that  her  reply  was  at  all  irrelevant.  They  gazed  at 
each  other  with  ecstatic  eyes  and  joined  in  the  dance 
again. 


CYNTHIA'S  WAY 

By  Mrs.  ALFRED  SIDGWICK 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE  INNER  SHRINE,"  "THE  GRASSHOPPERS,"   ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.5O 

••  This  is  a  tale  of  an  heiress  that  is  not  met  with  every  day.  Cynthia  Blount 
is  a  millionairess  whose  wish  it  is  to  be  loved  for  her  own  sake  and  not  for  her 
material  wealth.  As  a  means  to  this  end  she  takes  a  situation,  which  has  been 
offered  to  a  friend,  as  English  governess  in  a  German  family.  .  .  .  German 
family  life  is  very  intimately  and  faithfully  depicted,  and  most  of  the  characters 
are  well  drawn  and  interesting.  *  Cynthia's  Way '  is  well  worth  reading. " 

—DAILY  CHRONICLE,  NEWCASTLE,  ENO. 

"This  is  an  unusually  interesting  book  .  .  .  it  is  so  artistically  handled, 
so  delightfully  unravelled  that  one  forgets  and  forgives  ...  for  light,  inter- 
esting literature,  a  joy  to  the  traveller,  this  dainty  book  has  not  been  surpassed 
in  many  moons. " — SPIRIT  OF  THE  TIMES,  NEW  YORK. 

"  A  delightful  story  of  German  life.  .  .  .  Altogether  the  story  deserves 
higher  praise  than  it  is  possible  to  give  to  the  ruck  of  current  fiction." 

— JOURNAL,  PROVIDENCE,  R.  I. 

"  It  is  a  most  amusing  novel.  .  .  .  For  the  fairness  of  the  book  it  would 
be  unsafe  to  vouch,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  entertaining.  Even  a 
German  might  smile  over  it. " — REPUBLICAN,  SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 

"The  dialogue  of  the  book  fairly  sparkles,  and  the  light  fiction  of  the  year 
offers  no  more  charming  medium  of  pleasure." — DENVER  REPUBLICAN. 

"  This  is  an  amusing,  clever  book,  full  of  humorous  scenes,  a  satirical  under- 
standing of  the  lighter  sides  of  character,  done  with  a  light  touch  and  much 
taste."— COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  N.  Y. 

"There  are  so  few  really  bright  and  entertaining  novels  this  season  that 
•  Cynthia's  Way '  will  be  gladly  seized  upon  by  hungry  novel  readers.  The  style 
is  very  taking  and  amusing." — BOSTON  BEACON. 

"This  is  a  taking  story,  humorous  and  brisk,  with  a  flavor  of  originality 
that  makes  it  appetizing."— FREE  PRESS,  DETROIT,  MICH. 

"  A  most  readable  story  of  pure  tone  and  interesting  matter  .  .  .  can  be 
heartily  recommended  to  anyone  liking  a  wholesome  tale  of  interesting  people." 

— COURIER-JOURNAL,  LOUISVILLE,  KY. 

"  Mrs.  Sidgwick's  new  novel,  •  Cynthia's  Way '—her  cleverest  piece  of  work 
thus  far — reminds  us  strongly  of '  The  Benefactress.'  The  same  fresh,  vivacious, 
and  femininely  ironical  style  marks  the  two  stories  and  wins  upon  the  reader 
with  irresistible  beguilement  No  one  will  put  down  th«  history  of  Cynthia,  w« 
Imagine,  until  the  last  page  is  reached."— N.  Y.  TRIBUNE. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  CHEVALIER  D'AURIAC. 

A  ROMANCE. 
BY  S.  LEVETT  YEATS. 

AUTHOR  OP  "THE  HONOUR  OF  SAVELU,"  ETC.,  ETC. 
1  2mo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25. 


"The  story  is  full  of  action,  it  is  alive  from  cover  to  cover,  and  it  so  compact  with  thrill- 
ing adventure  that  there  is  no  room  for  a  dull  page.  The  chevalier  tells  his  own  story,  but 
he  is  the  most  charming  of  egoists.  He  wins  our  sympathies  from  the  outsat  by  his  boyish 
naivete,  his  downright  manliness  and  bravery.  .  .  .  Not  only  has  Mr.  Yeats  written  an 
excellent  tale  of  adventure,  but  he  has  shown  a  close  study  of  character  which  doc*  not  bor- 
row merely  from  the  trappings  of  historical  actors,  but  which  denotes  a  keen  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  and  a  shrewd  insight  into  the  workings  of  human  motives.  .  .  .  The 
fashion  of  the  period  is  kept  well  in  mind,  the  style  of  writing  has  just  that  touch  of  old- 
fashioned  formality  which  serves  to  veil  the  past  from  the  present,  and  to  throw  the  lights 
and  shadows  into  a  harmony  of  tone.  .  .  .  The  work  has  literary  quality  of  a  genuine 
sort  in  it,  which  raises  it  above  a  numerous  host  of  its  fellows  in  kind. 

— BOOKMAN,  NEW  YORK. 

"...  A  story  of  Huguenot  days,  brim  full  of  action  that  takes  shape  in  plots,  sud- 
den surprises,  fierce  encounters,  and  cunning  intrigues.  The  author  is  so  saturated  with  the 
times  of  which  he  writes  that  the  story  is  realism  itself.  .  .  .  The  story  is  brilliant  and 
thrilling,  and  whoever  sits  down  to  give  it  attention  will  reach  the  last  page  with  regret." 

— GLOBE,  BOSTON. 

"...  A  tale  of  more  than  usual  interest  and  of  genuine  literary  merit.  ... 
The  characters  and  scenes  in  a  sense  seem  far  removed,  yet  they  live  in  our  hearts  and  seem 
contemporaneous  through  the  skill  and  philosophic  treatment  of  the  author.  Those  men  and 
women  seem  akin  to  us ;  they  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  are  impelled  by  human  motives  as  we 
are.  One  cannot  follow  the  fortunes  of  this  hero  without  feeling  refreshed  and  benefited." 

— GLOBE-DEMOCRAT,  ST.  Louis. 

"  A  book  that  may  be  recommended  to  all  those  who  appreciate  a  good,  hearty,  rollicking 
story  of  adventure,  with  lots  of  fierce  fighting  and  a  proper  proportion  of  love-making.  ... 
There  is  in  his  novel  no  more  history  than  is  necessary,  and  no  tedious  detail ;  it  is  a  story 
inspired  by,  but  not  slavishly  following,  history.  ...  The  book  is  full  of  incident,  and 
from  the  first  chapter  to  the  last  the  action  never  flags.  ...  In  the  Chevalier  the  author 
has  conceived  a  sympathetic  character,  for  d"  Auriac  is  more  human  and  less  of  a  puppet  than 
most  heroes  of  historical  novels,  and  consequently  there  are  few  readers  who  will  not  find  en- 
joyment in  the  story  of  his  thrilling  adventures.  .  .  .  This  book  should  be  read  by  all 
who  love  a  good  story  of  adventures.  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it." — NEW  YORK  SUM. 

"A  capital  story  of  the  Dumas- Weyman  order.  .  .  .  The  first  chapters  bring  one 
right  into  the  thick  of  the  story,  and  from  thence  on  the  interest  is  unflagging.  The  Cheva- 
lier himself  is  an  admirably  studied  character,  whose  straightforwardness  and  simplicity, 
bravery,  and  impulsive  and  reckless  chivalry,  win  the  reader's  sympathy.  D'Auriac  has 
something  of  the  intense  vitality  of  Dumas's  heroes,  and  the  delightful  improbabilities  through 
which  he  passes  so  invincibly  have  a  certain  human  quality  which  renders  them  akin  to  our 
day.  Mr.  Levett  Yeats  has  done  better  in  this  book  than  in  anything  else  he  has  written." 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 

"The  interest  in  the  story  does  not  lag  for  an  instant;  all  is  life  and  action.  The  pict- 
uresque historical  setting  is  admirably  painted,  and  the  characters  are  skilfully  drawn,  espe- 
cially that  of  the  king,  a  true  monarch,  a  brave  soldier,  and  a  gentleman.  The  Chevalier  i* 
the  typical  hero  of  romance,  fearing  nothing  save  a  stain  on  his  honor,  and  with  such  a  hero 
there  can  not  but  be  vigor  and  excitement  in  every  page  of  the  story." 

— MAIL  AND  EXPRESS,  NEW  YORK. 

"As  a  story  of  adventure,  pure  and  simple,  after  the  type  originally  seen  in  Dumas' t 
'Three  Musketeers,'  the  book  is  well  worthy  of  high  praise.  — OUTLOOK,  NEW  YORK. 

"  We  find  all  the  fascination  of  mediaeval  France,  which  have  made  Mr.  Weyman's  stories 
such  general  favorites.  .  .  .  We  do  not  see  how  any  intelligent  reader  can  take  it  up 
without  keen  enjoyment" — LIVING  CHURCH,  CHICAGO. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  00.,  91-93  PHTH  AYR,  NEW  YOBK, 


THE  FIERY  DAWN 

By  M.  E.  COLERIDGE 
AUTHOR  OF  "THE  KING  WITH  TWO  FACES,"  "NOW  SEQUITUR,"  ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.5O 

"  Here  is  an  able  and  cleverly  written  romance  of  modern  French  life  during 
a  stirring  and  troublous  period." — OUTLOOK,  N.  Y. 

"A  historical  tale  which  is  dramatic  and  interesting  enough  to  keep  the  lov- 
ers of  such  narrative  happy  for  a  time.  It  is  full  of  action  and  mystery,  alive 
with  adventurous  deeds  and  their  fascination.  It  has  romance,  pathos  and  the 
vivid  coloring  of  Dumas." — COURIER-JOURNAL,  LOUISVILLE,  KY. 

"  There  are  many  historical  romances  written  to-day,  and  few  that  have  any 
genuine  originality.  .  .  .  '  The  Fiery  Dawn '  is  an  exception  to  this  more 
or  less  general  rule,  for  it  has  some  originality,  some  poetry  and  several  charm- 
ing characters  ...  it  has  freshness,  poetry,  and  in  touches,  the  genuine 
spirit  of  romance." — COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  N.  Y. 


THE  GOLD-STEALERS 

A  STORY  OF  WADDY 

By    EDWARD    DYSON 
AUTHOR  OF  "BELOW  AND  ON  TOP,"  ETC. 

With  8  Full-page  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo,  $1.5O 

"  Boys  who  are  fond  of  tales  of  adventure  will  lose  no  time  in  reading  '  The 
Gold-Stealers.'"— TRANSCRIPT,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

"  It  is  an  exceedingly  interesting  narrative,  bright  and  crisp  of  dialogue,  and 
full  of  stirring  incidents  in  the  '  gold  fields '  of  Australia." 

—CHRONICLE-TELEGRAPH,  PITTSBURGH,  PA. 

"  A  very  bright  and  entertaining  story  of  life  among  the  miners  at  Waddy, 
Australia."— ST.  Louis  GLOBE-DEMOCRAT. 

"A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Australian  mining  fields.  There  is  a 
pretty  love  element  in  the  romance,  also  a  touch  of  characteristic  boy  life,  and 
the  atmosphere  is  breezy  and  exhilarating.  The  story  is  generously  illustrated." 

—ST.  Louis  REPUBLICAN. 

"  The  characters  of  the  rough  mining  lads  are  well  drawn,  and  there  is  much 
of  a  light,  amusing  character  in  the  incidents  of  the  story.  A  little  love-story 
between  one  of  the  lads  and  a  daughter  of  a  miner  is  woven  into  the  texture  of 
the  tale.  Altogether  it  is  a  well-constructed  and  well-written  story." 

—BROOKLYN  EAGLE. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &   CO.,   91-93   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


COUNT  HANNIBAL 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE 

BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE," 
"THE  CASTLE  INN,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  Frontispiece.    Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.5O 

"  It  is  very  seldom  that  one  runs  across  a  historical  novel  the  plot  of  which  is 
so  ably  sustained,  the  characters  so  strongly  drawn,  the  local  color  or  atmosphere 
so  satisfactory.  .  .  '  Count  Hannibal '  is  the  strongest  and  most  interest- 
ing novel  as  yet  written  by  this  popular  author." — BOSTON  TIMES. 

"  Stanley  J.  Weyman  has  had  hundreds  of  imitators  since  he  wrote  '  A  Gen- 
tleman of  France,'  but  no  man  has  yet  surpassed  him.  I  know  of  no  book  in 
the  whole  list  of  popular  favorites  that  holds  one's  interest  more  intensely  or 
more  continuously  than  '  Count  Hannibal '  does.  And  what  an  insistent,  throat- 
gripping  interest  it  is ! 

What  is  the  use  of  hoping  for  a  decadence  of  the  craze  for  historical 
romances  so  long  as  the  public  is  fed  on  books  like  this  ?  Such  a  story  has  zest 
for  the  most  jaded  palate  ;  nay,  it  can  hold  the  interest  even  of  a  book  reviewer. 
From  the  first  page  to  the  last  there  is  not  a  moment  when  one's  desire  to  finish 
the  book  weakens.  Along  with  the  ordinary  interest  of  curiosity  there  goes  that 
of  a  delightful  and  unique  love  story  involving  no  little  skill  in  character  deline- 
ation."—RECORD- HERALD,  CHICAGO. 

"  A  spirited,  tersely  interesting  and  most  vivid  story  of  scenes  and  incidents 
and  portrayals  of  various  characters  that  lived  and  fought  and  bled  in  the  lurid 
days  that  saw  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  .  .  .  This  is  Mr.  Weyman 's 
most  graphic  and  realistic  novel. " — PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 

"  Mr.  Weyman  has  surpassed  himself  in  'Count  Hannibal.'  The  scene  of 
the  story  is  laid  chiefly  in  Paris,  at  the  time  of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew. .  .  .  We  are  made  to  grasp  the  soul  of  Count  Hannibal  and  are  tacitly 
asked  to  let  its  envelope  take  care  of  itself.  .  .  .  Never  has  Mr.  Weyman 
achieved,  in  fact,  a  higher  degree  of  verisimilitude.  Count  Hannibal  may  leave 
us  breathless  with  his  despotic  methods,  but  he  is  not  abnormal ;  he  is  one  of  the 
Frenchmen  who  shared  the  temper  which  made  the  St.  Bartholomew,  and  he  is  in- 
tensely human  too  .  .  .  how  the  tangle  of  events  in  which  he  and  half  a 
dozen  others  are  involved  is  straightened  out  we  refrain  from  disclosing.  The 
reader  who  once  takes  up  this  book  will  want  to  find  all  this  out  for  himself." 

— NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"A  story  in  Mr.  Weyman's  best  vein,  with  the  crimson  horror  of  St  Bar- 
tholomew as  an  historical  setting.  '  Count  Hannibal  '  is  a  worthy  companion  of 
1  A  Gentleman  of  France  '  and  '  The  Red  Cockade,'  and  Mr.  Weyman's  hand  is 
as  cunning  as  ever  in  fashioning  a  romance  which  will  send  a  thrill  through  the 
most  jaded  reader  and  keep  even  a  reviewer  from  his  bed. " 

— BOOKMAN,  LONDON. 

"  The  book  is  rapid,  is  absorbing,  and  the  hero  is  a  distinctly  interesting 
character  in  himself,  apart  from  his  deeds  of  daring. " — ATHBNJEUM. 

"  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman's  '  Count  Hannibal '  is  fully  worthy  of  his  great  repu- 
tation— the  style  is  brilliant,  easy  and  clear ;  the  invention  of  subject  and  the 
turns  of  fortune  in  the  story  surprising;  above  all,  the  subtle  painting  of  a  man 
and  a  woman's  heart  is  done  with  inexhaustible  knowledge." — GUARDIAN. 

"  A  picturesque  and  vigorous  romance.  The  narrative  will  be  followed  with 
breathless  interest."— TIMES,  LONDON. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00,,  91-93  PITTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK. 


THE  WHIRLIGIG 

By  MAYNE  LINDSAY 

AUTHOR    OF  "THE  VALLEY   OF  SAPPHIRES' 


With  8  full-page  Illustrations  by  Maurice  Grieffenhagen 
Crown  8vo,  $1 .25 


"Crisp  and  clever  diction,  thrilling  yet  always  possible  situations,  with 
strength  sustained  throughout,  are  the  features  of  the  story.  It  is  a  perfect 
romance." — LLOYDS'  NEWS. 

"  Fairly  takes  one  off  his  feet  with  its  crowded,  impetuous,  bustling  succes- 
sion of  events.  The  story  is  well  told  and  holds  the  interest  .  .  .  The  story 
while  discoursing  of  dangerous  things  does  it  lightly  and  with  a  skillful  hand." 

— COURIER-JOURNAL,  LOUISVILLE,  KY. 

"  Makes  stirring  reading  .  .  .  the  action  takes  place  within  three  days, 
and  the  reader  is  carried  along  breathlessly  from  one  chapter  to  another." 

— CHICAGO  TRIBUNE. 

"  And  surely  it  is  a  '  Whirligig '  which  Mayne  Lindsay  has  devised,  abun- 
dant in  well-preserved  mystery,  with  the  proper  amount  of  sword-play  and  the  due 
complement  of  broken  heads,  and  full  of  exciting  yet  possible  situations.  Mr. 
Lindsay,  though  comparatively  a  new  writer,  shows  nothing  of  the  amateur  in 
this  dashing,  roystering  story,  which,  aside  from  its  incidents,  is  good  in  charac- 
ter drawing." — DETROIT  FREE  PRESS. 

"  The  author  is  a  young  and  comparatively  new  writer,  but  has  shown  un- 
usual skill  and  ingenuity  in  this  novel.  Seldom  has  an  author  succeeded  in 
crowding  two  days  of  a  man's  life  so  full  of  stirring,  unexpected  events  as  are 
here  provided  for  the  hero. " — CHICAGO  EVENING  POST. 

"A  sparkling,  very  prettily  turned  little  romance,  whimsical  and  pictur- 
esque."— NEW  YORK  TIMES. 

"Among  stories  of  adventure  it  would  be  hard  to  match  '  The  Whirligig.' 
.  .  .  It  starts  in  a  quiet,  if  unconventional,  way,  but  once  fairly  launched  on 
the  stream  of  narrative,  the  reader  is  carried  along,  in  breathless,  eager  haste  to 
the  very  end.  It  is  a  story  to  thrill  the  pulses  and  keep  one  on  the  edge  of 
ardent  curiosity  as  to  what  is  going  to  turn  up  next" — THE  BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  There  is  no  dozing  or  drowsing  to  be  done  over  this  novel.  It  is  a  swiftly 
moving  tale  of  breathless  excitement  It  is  drawn  according  to  a  familiar  pat- 
tern ;  but  it  has  merits  of  its  own  that  will  compel  the  attention  and  absorbed 
interest  of  every  reader  who  once  takes  it  up.  The  writer  is  new,  but  should 
soon  become  well  known  and  popular,  if  he  can  do  this  sort  of  thing  again." 

—PHILADELPHIA  TIMES. 


LONGMANS,   GREEN,   &   CO.,  91-93   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


WAYFARING    MEN. 

BY  EDNA  LYALL, 

AUTHOR  or  "DONOVAN,"  "WE  TWO,"  "DOREEN,"  *rc. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $  1 .50. 


"...  We  take  up  Edna  Lyall's  last  novel  .  .  .  with  high  expectations,  and 
we  are  not  disappointed.  Miss  Bayly  has  acquired  a  wonderful  insight  into  human  nature, 
and  this  last  production  of  her  pen  is  full  of  the  true  portrayals  of  life.  .  .  .  The  whole 
book  is  a  whiff  of  '  caller  air '  in  these  days  of  degenerate  fiction." 

—COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  NEW  YORK. 

"  One  of  her  best  stories.  It  has  all  the  qualities  which  have  won  her  popularity  in  the 
past." — SENTINEL,  MILWAUKEE. 

"A  well- written  and  vigorous  story." — OBSERVER,  NEW  YORK. 

"  It  is  a  strong  story,  thoroughly  well  constructed,  .  .  .  with  the  characters  very 
skilfully  handled.  .  .  .  Altogether  the  story  is  far  above  the  ordinary,  and  bids  fair  to 
be  one  of  the  most  successful  of  the  opening  season." — COMMERCIAL,  BUFFALO. 

"  Edna  Lyall  .  .  .  has  added  another  excellent  volume  to  the  number  of  her  ro- 
mances. .  .  .  It  sustains  the  reputation  of  the  author  for  vigorous  writing. and  graceful 
depicting  of  life,  both  in  the  peasant's  cabin  and  the  noble's  hall.' 

— OBSERVER,  UTICA,  NEW  YORK. 

"  Miss  Lyall's  novel  is  one  of  unflagging  interest,  written  in  that  clear,  virile  style,  with 
its  gentle  humor  and  dramatic  effectiveness,  that  readers  well  know  and  appreciate.  .  .  . 
On  many  pages  of  the  story  the  writer  reveals  her  sympathetic  admiration  for  Ireland  and 
the  Irish.  '  Wayfaring  Men  '  is  a  literary  tonic  to  be  warmly  welcomed  and  cheerfully  com- 
mended as  an  antidote  to  much  of  the  unhealthy,  morbid,  and  enervating  fiction  of  the  day." 

— PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  The  author  has  made  a  pretty  and  interesting  love-story,  ...  a  truthful  picture  of 
modern  stage  life,  and  a  thoroughly  human  story  that  holds  the  interest  to  the  end." 

— TRIBUNE,  CHICAGO. 

"  It  is  a  story  that  you  will  enjoy,  because  it  does  not  start  out  to  reform  the  world  in  less 
than  five  hundred  pages,  only  to  wind  up  by  being  suppressed  by  the  government.  It  is  a 
bright  story  of  modern  life,  and  it  will  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  delighted  in  '  Donovan,' 
4  We  Two,  and  other  books  by  this  author."— CINCINNATI  TRIBUNE. 

"  A  new  book  by  Edna  Lyall  is  sure  of  a  hearty  welcome.  '  Wayfaring  Men '  will  not 
disappoint  any  of  her  admirers.  It  has  many  of  the  characteristics  of  her  earlier  and  still 
popular  books.  It  is  a  story  of  theatrical  life,  with  which  the  author  shows  an  unusually 
extensive  and  sympathetic  acquaintance." — NEW  ORLEANS  PICAYUNE. 

"  Characterized  by  the  same  charming  simplicity  of  style  and  realism  that  won  for 
'  Donovan '  and  '  Knight  Errant '  their  popularity.  .  .  .  Miss  Lyall  has  made  no  attempt 
to  create  dramatic  situations,  though  it  is  so  largely  a  tale  of  stage  life,  but  has  dealt  with 
the  trials  and  struggles  of  an  actor's  career  with  an  insight  and  delicacy  that  are  truly  pleas- 
ing."— THE  ARGONAUT,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

"  Is  a  straightforward,  interesting  story,  in  which  people  and  things  theatrical  have 
much  to  do.  The  hero  is  an  actor,  young  and  good,  and  the  heroine— as  Miss  Lyall's  hero- 
ines are  sure  to  be — is  a  real  woman,  winning  and  lovable.  There  is  enough  excitement  in 
the  book  to  please  romance-lovers,  and  there  are  no  problems  to  vex  the  souls  of  those  who 
love  a  story  for  the  story's  sake.  It  will  not  disappoint  the  large  number  of  persons  who 
have  learned  to  look  forward  with  impatient  expectation  to  the  publication  of  Miss  Lyall'* 
'next  novel.'  '  Wayfaring  Men '  is  sure  of  a  wide  and  a  satisfied  reading." 

— WOMANKIND,  SPRINGFIELD,  OHIO. 


LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  00,,  91-93  PITTS  AVK,  NEW  YOEK. 


ONE  OF  OURSELVES 

BY  MRS.  L.  B.  WALFORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BABY'S  GRANDMOTHER,"  "  LEDDY.  MARGET,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  454  Pages,  S1.5O 


••  Never  before  were  better  portraits  made  of  middle-class  English  women 
than  we  find  in  the  wives  of  the  three  bankers,  Thomas,  Charles,  and  Stephen 
Farrell ;  ...  is  about  the  best  novel  Mrs.  Walford  has  ever  written,  and  as 
has  already  been  said,  her  characters,  all  of  them,  are  depicted  with  remarkable 
grace  and  virility." — TIMBS,  BOSTON. 

"  An  entertaining  story  with  characteristic  piquancy,  shrewdness,  and  sensi- 
bility. She  has  ever  had  a  special  gift  for  the  description  of  what  may  be  called 
tasteful  love-making."— NBW  YORK  TRIBUNB. 

"  Is  an  amusing  English  story ;  ...  it  is  full  of  amusing  incidents  and 
situations." — SAN  FRANCISCO  CHRONICLE. 

"There  is  great  variety  of  scene  and  incident  in  the  novel,  and  the  situ- 
ations are  amusing."— ARGONAUT,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

"A  very  vivacious  story  of  four  orphans.  .  .  .  The  conversations  are 
unusually  well  managed."— NEW  ENGLAND  MAGAZINE. 

"  This  is  a  story  of  English  life,  brightly  told,  a  little  on  the  long  side,  but 
interesting  and  entertaining  throughout.  Moreover,  it  is  altogether  wholesome 
reading,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  many  stories  published  nowadays. 
Its  lessons  are  good.  There  is  one  for  young  girls  and  women,  and  one,  too, 
for  men.  Much  of  the  telling  of  the  story  is  managed  by  conversations,  and 
these,  though  oftentimes  very  amusing,  are  simple  and  natural — very  different 
from  the  smart  persiflage  and  elegant  wit-play  so  much  striven  for  by  many 
writers  of  modern  fiction.  '  One  of  Ourselves '  is  indeed  on  the  whole  a  very 
likable  story.  There  are  many  characters  in  it — some  pretty  ones — and  these 
are  all  portrayed  admirably.  A  story  with  so  much  domesticity  in  it,  and  so 
little  that  is  stagey  and  melodramatic,  is  not  far  from  rare." 

— BULLETIN  OF  NEW  BOOKS. 

"  It  is  a  remarkably  good  character  study.  The  quiet  adventures  and  pleas- 
ant happenings  of  the  various  members  of  the  family  are  most  interesting,  and 
one  enjoys  the  society  of  a  wholesome  group  throughout  the  whole  story." 

—FINANCIAL  RECORD,  NEW  YORK. 

"A  very  bright  social  study,  and  the  author  succeeds  in  thoroughly  arousing 
the  reader's  interest  in  the  love-making  of  William  Farrell,  who,  in  the  guise  of 
an  honored  member  of  society,  is  a  consummate  scoundrel." 

—HERALD,  MONTREAL. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  00,,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK. 


CHARLOTTE 

By  MRS.  L.  B.  WALFORD 
Crown  8vo,  382  pages,  $1.5O 

"  Charlotte  is  an  exceedingly  beautiful,  fascinating,  and  utterly  selfish 
coquette,   belonging  to  a   '  smart  set '  whose  rapid  pace   is   hardly  swift 
enough  to  suit  her     ...     a  very  good  story  with  a  very  good  moral." 
— CHURCH  STANDARD,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 

"...  a  society  novel  pulsating  with  life  and  action,  and  revealing 
many  of  the  subtleties  of  the  human  heart. 

"  The  scene  vacillates  pleasantly  between  London  at  its  season's  height, 
fashionable  summer-resorts,  and  tranquillizing  rural  retreats,  with  a  strange 
interplay  of  light  and  shadow  and  commingling  of  comedy  and  tragedy. 
From  an  artistic  standpoint  the  book  is  a  clever  creation,  vivid  and  real." 

— CHICAGO  POST. 

"  This  is  a  study  of  a  young  lady  who  is  not  at  all  good,  but  who,  as  not 
infrequently  is  the  case  with  people  of  doubtful  virtues,  is  very  interesting 

.     .     an  extremely  readable  novel. " — COURIER,  LEBANON,  PA. 


THE   HINDERERS 

By   EDNA   LYALL 
Crown  8vo,  8  LOO 


"There  is  an  unusual  love-story  in  'The  Hinderers  '  and  a  heroine  of 
much  magnetism.  Irene  de  St.  Croix,  a  lovable  English  girl  of  an  admir- 
able type.  The  romance  of  her  wooing  by  Sir  Christopher  Hope  is  well 
told." — REPUBLIC,  ST.  Louis. 

"  .  .  .  this  interesting  novel  deserves  to  be  read  by  all  those  who 
would  like  to  follow  a  clean,  well-told,  and  spirited  narrative  of  incidents, 
that  are  liable  to  occur  in  this  age  of  furious  living." 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 

"  The  book  should  be  read  and  will  be  enjoyed  by  the  many  admirers  of 
this  well-known  writer  of  fiction." — CHRISTIAN  WORK,  NEW  YORK. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  best  stories  written  by  Miss  Bayly.  It  is  a  strong 
narrative,  well  constructed,  with  characters  skilfully  handled.  It  is  a  story 
of  the  present  time  and  absorbingly  interesting." 

— ARMY  AND  NAVY  REGISTER,  WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 

LONGMANS,   GREEN,   &   CO.,    91-93    FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


MY  LADY  OF  ORANGE 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  ALVA 

BY  H.  C.  BAILEY 


With  8  Illustrations  by  G.  P.  Jacomb-Hood 
Crown  8vo,  $1.25 


"  There  is  not  a  line  of  padding  in  the  story.  It  moves  swiftly  and  steadily 
from  start  to  finish.  Incident  follows  incident  in  vivid  succession,  but  the  narra- 
tive, while  rapid,  is  never  complex  or  incoherent  The  hero  is  a  soldier  of 
sturdy  pattern ;  and  My  Lady  of  Orange  is  a  woman  worthy  of  the  hairbreadth 
'scapes  endured  for  her  safety  and  happiness.  The  pictures  by  Mr.  Jacomb- 
Hood  are  superb." — BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  .  .  .  Told  with  a  vigorous  brusqueness  and  force  that  are  in  keeping 
with  the  character  of  the  doughty  soldier  of  fortune  as  he  reveals  himself  to  be. 
There  is  plenty  of  fighting  and  deeds  of  daring.  .  .  .  The  heroine, 
Mistress  Gabrielle  de  St.  Trond,  is  a  brave,  winsome  maid,  with  courage  and 
wit  and  womanly  sweetness  too.  .  .  .  The  story  moves  forward  with  a  fine 
impetuosity  and  dash,  and  speeds  briskly  in  the  telling,  as  befits  a  tale  of 
action." — BROOKLYN  TIMES. 

"  Mr.  Bailey  has  written  a  rattling  good  story  of  Alva  and  the  war  in  the 
Netherlands.  .  .  .  Mr.  Bailey  has  caught  the  atmosphere  of  the  period  very 
successfully.  The  style  of  the  narrative  is  just  archaic  enough  without  being 
pedantic,  and  the  spirit  and  character  of  the  narrator  are  very  clearly  and  dra- 
matically portrayed.  In  this  respect  the  novel  will  rank  high  among  recent 
books  of  its  kind."— NEWS  AND  COURIER,  CHARLESTON. 

"  The  soldier  of  fortune  has  never  been  more  exactly  and  strongly  delineated 
than  he  is  in  '  My  Lady  of  Orange.'  It  is  replete  with  thrilling  escapades,  and 
every  character  is  one  of  interest  clearly  delineated.  An  excellent  romance 
skilfully  described." — BOSTON  COURIER. 

"  We  have  to  thank  Mr.  Bailey,  whose  name  is  new  to  us,  for  creating  such 
a  womanly  heroine,  for  such  an  entertaining  and  faithful  reproduction  of 
old-time  Flemish  life,  and  for  making  his  characters  think  and  talk,  and  now 
and  then  swear,  like  human  men  and  women  and  not  like  literary  puppets." 

— MAIL  AND  EXPRESS,  NEW  YORK. 

"  Here  is  a  natural,  tender,  humorous,  beautiful  and  artistic  romance,  told 
autobiographically  by  an  Englishman,  who  was  a  soldier  of  Orange.  We 
receive  here  graphic  accounts  of  Holland  life,  and  an  easy,  human  kind  of 
narrative  which  will  interest  men  and  women  alike.  The  value  of  the  tale  is 
enhanced  by  eight  full-page  illustrations." — GLOUCESTER  DAILY  TIMES. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  00,,  91-93  PUTS  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK. 


LUKE  DELMEGE 

By  P.  A.  SHEEHAN,  Parish  Priest,  Doneraile,  Co.  Cork 

AUTHOR   OF    "  MY  NEW   CURATE  " 


Crown  8vo,  $1.5O 

"  This  is  an  exceedingly  powerful  and  absorbing  book.  Beginning  with  the 
true  artistic  quiet  and  restraint,  it  strengthens  and  broadens  in  power  and  inter- 
est until  it  moves  on  like  a  great  procession.  .  .  .  It  is  a  novel  but  it  is  more 
than  that.  It  is  a  great  sermon,  a  great  lesson,  almost  a  great  drama,  .  .  . 
We  cordially  commend  '  Luke  Delmege  '  for  its  lofty  purpose  and  thought,  its 
adequate  diction,  and  its  high  incentive  .  .  .  there  is  in  it  an  occasional 
touch  of  humor  which  is  very  welcome  and  which  is  truly  Irish  in  its  nature. 
Altogether  we  consider  '  Luke  Delmege  '  the  most  notable  religious  novel  that 
has  been  written  within  a  year. " — THE  SUN,  BALTIMORE,  MD. 

"One  of  the  triumphs  among  the  works  of  fiction.  .  .  .  It  is  an  extremely 
interesting  tale  of  Irish  life,  full  of  profound  erudition,  and  withal  replete  with 
incident  and  pathos. " — MONITOR,  ST.  JOHN,  N.  B. 

'"Luke  Delmege '  is  in  some  respects  a  greater  accomplishment  than  its 
predecessor.  If  it  has  not  such  exuberance  of  humor,  its  theme  is  more  vital 
and  the  work  itself  more  substantial  It  is  a  book  which  philosophers  and  se- 
rious students  will  enjoy  almost  as  thoroughly  as  the  chronic  novel-reader.  .  .  . 
No  other  author  has  given  us  such  a  series  of  clerical  portraits  ...  a  story 
of  which  Catholics  may  well  be  proud.  It  is  of  classic  quality,  and  generations 
hence  it  will  be  read,  enjoyed,  and  lauded  as  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  English 
fiction." — AVE  MARIA,  NOTRE  DAME,  IND. 

"  This  is  loftier  work  than  '  My  New  Curate,'  and  its  influence  will  be  stronger 
and  grander.  It  is  a  wonderful  story,  with  something  in  its  passionate  pleading 
for  the  supremacy  of  the  mystical  that  recalls  a  mediaeval  saint  emerging  from 
his  solitude  to  denounce  the  world  and  to  summon  the  few  elect  to  the  business 
of  their  salvation.  .  .  .  We  freely  pass  upon  the  book  the  judgment  that  it 
is  worthy  to  live  with  the  very  best  we  have  of  noble  and  uplifting  fiction." 

— CATHOLIC  NEWS,  N.  Y. 

"  Father  Sheehan's  latest  work  is  in  many  respects  his  best.  It  is  a  more 
pretentious  literary  effort  and  a  more  finished  work  than  '  My  New  Curate.' 
.  .  .  .  His  characters  are  strong  and  lifelike.  All  things  considered  '  Luke 
Delmege '  is  one  of  the  best  things  that  have  been  published  lately. " 

— ROSARY  MAGAZINE,  N.  Y. 

"  We  have  just  read  '  Luke  Delmege,'  and  of  all  the  books  of  the  year,  ser- 
mon or  song  or  story,  we  put  it  first.  ...  In  this  new  work  he  adds  a  new 
glory  to  his  fame— a  place  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  forever." 

— FREEMAN'S  JOURNAL,  V.  Y. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOB& 


By  EDNA  LYALL 

AUTHOR  OF   "DONOVAN,"   "  DOREEN,"   "HOPE,  THE  HERMIT,"   ETC.,  ETC 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.5O 

"  The  days  when  England  was  rent  with  civil  war,  when  Puritan  and  Cava- 
lier fought  for  Parliament  and  King ;  when  Cromwell's  Roundheads  struggled 
heroically  against  the  lawless  Charles  and  finally  won — this  is  the  period  chosen 
for  this  splendid  story  .  .  .  while  of  necessity  there  is  abundance  of  war,  the 
story  is,  above  all,  one  of  love — tried  and  triumphant  .  .  .  Finely  written, 
full  of  striking  pictures  of  men  and  events. 

The  book  is  full  of  people  with  whom  each  of  us  is  familiar  through  reading 
history,  and  every  one  of  them  is  drawn  with  rare  fidelity  to  truth.  The  tale 
should  have  a  hearty  welcome  from  all  classes  of  readers." 

—NASHVILLE  AMERICAN. 

"  The  romance  .  .  .  the  familiar  one  of  a  Royalist  maiden  and  a  Puritan 
lover  who  espoused  the  cause  of  the  people  .  .  .  is  of  deep  interest  and  the 
story  thrills  with  the  excitement  of  conflicts  and  adventures,  mingled  with  the 
gentle  influences  of  love. 

The  book  is  pleasing  in  all  respects,  and  the  story  is  exceedingly  well  toldt 
holding  interest  to  the  end. " — EVERY  EVENING,  WILMINGTON,  DEL. 

"  This  story  of  532  pages  is  one  which  will  win  its  thousands  of  readers,  as  a 
story  of  love  and  trial,  war  and  separation,  must  when  handled  with  the  skill 
which  this  author's  training  has  given  her.'' — MAIL  AND  EXPRESS,  N.  Y. 

"  It  has  much  historic  interest  ...  A  pretty  romance  holds  the  reader's 
interest  all  through  the  book.  The  hero  is  a  Puritan,  while  the  girl  he  loves, 
Hilary,  as  sweet  and  wilful  and  true  a  maid  as  could  have  been  found  in  those 
stormy  times,  is  a  bishop's  niece  and  therefore  a  Royalist  in  all  her  sympathies. 
There  are  strong  dramatic  scenes  in  the  book — the  battlefield  and  the  political 
intrigue  of  court  life  are  portrayed  and  also  the  religious  strife  existing  at  the 
time.  The  bigotry  of  the  Church  and  the  fanaticism  of  many  of  the  Puritans  is 
well  portrayed.  The  book,  like  all  that  this  author  has  written,  is  interesting 
and  wholesome." — REPUBLICAN,  DENVER,  COL. 

"The  story  is  clean,  pure  and  wholesome,  has  plenty  of  adventure  and  a 
goodly  amount  of  love-making,  and  is  written  in  an  easy,  pleasant  strain  that 
makes  it  an  entertaining  book. " — BALTIMORE  AMERICAN. 

"Is  well  worth  the  reading." — CHURCHMAN,  N.  Y. 

"  The  high  moral  tone  of  the  book  and  its  historical  accuracy  will  commend 
it  to  the  better  class  of  novel  readers."— CONGREGATIONALIST,  BOSTON. 

"The  latest  book  by  Edna  Lyall  may  safely  be  said  to  be  one  of  the  best  of 
recent  historical  novels." — BOSTON  TRANSCRIPT. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK 


HOPE    THE    HERMIT 

A  ROMANCE  OF  BORROWDALE. 
BY  EDNA  LYALL, 

AUTHOR  OF  "DORBBN,"  "WAYFARING  MEN,"  ETC. 
Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1 .50. 


"When  Edna  Lyall  wrote  this  book  she  stepped  into  the  front  rank  of  living  novelists. 
It  exemplifies  the  finest  type  of  historical  romance,  which  is,  of  course,  the  highest  form  of 
fictions  literature.  The  scene  of  the  story  is  one  of  the  loveliest  which  could  have  been 
chosen,  the  lake  region  of  England.  .  .  .  Her  story  is  full  of  life  and  incident,  and  at 
the  same  time  conveys  lessons  of  high  morality.  .  .  .  Altogether  this  is  one  of  the 
healthiest,  purest,  best,  and  most  powerful  romances  in  the  whole  range  of  English 
literature.  — LIVING  CHURCH,  CHICAGO. 

"  Miss  Bayly  ...  by  careful  examination  of  her  authorities  has  been  able  to  con- 
struct  an  uncommonly  good  romance  of  the  days  when  brother's  hand  was  against  brother. 
It  is  distinctly  good  work — a  stirring  story  and  in  every  way  creditable  to  the  author." 

— PUBLIC  OPINION,  NEW  YORK. 

"The  characters  are  well  drawn,  never  mere  puppets.  There  is  a  coherent,  well- 
thought-out,  and  carefully  developed  plot,  and  the  style  is  clear  and  straightforward.  The 
story  is  wholesome  and  interesting,  and  much  better  worth  reading  than  a  good  many  of 
the  so-called  '  stories  of  adventure.'  " — BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  There  are  few  novelists  of  the  present  day  whose  writings  are  better  known  and  liked 
than  those  of  Edna  Lyall.  They  are  always  clean,  pure  and  wholesome,  and  delightful  read- 
ing. The  latest, '  Hope  the  Hermit,'  deals  with  her  favorite  period,  the  seventeenth  century. 
We  have  the  revolution,  the  accession  of  William  and  Mary,  and  the  Jacobite  plots,  and 
among  the  real  characters  introduced  are  Archbishop  Tillotson,  Lady  Temple  and  George 
Fox,  the  Quaker.  .  .  .  The  story  ends  as  all  love  stories  should,  to  be  perfectly  satisfactory 
to  the  average  novel  reader,  and  '  Hope  the  Hermit '  will  find  many  readers,  who  are  fond 
of  a  good  story  well  told.'1 — ADVERTISER,  PORTLAND,  ME. 

"  She  is  quite  at  home  with  her  theme.  .  .  .  It  is  a  fine  historical  novel,  admirably 
written,  and  one  of  her  best  books." — LITERARY  WORLD,  BOSTON. 

"...  is  one  of  those  delightful  stories  that  have  made  the  author  very  popular 
and  that  one  can  take  up  with  the  absolute  certainty  of  finding  nothing  unclean  or  repel- 
}ent.  It  is  a  clear,  strong,  well-designed,  refreshing  story,  based  upon  scenes  and  events 
in  the  days  of  William  and  Mary  of  England — days  when  a  man  could  hardly  trust  his  own 
brother,  and  when  sons  were  on  one  side  in  a  rebellion,  and  the  father  on  the  other.  .  .  . 
Many  of  the  situations  are  very  exciting,  the  characters  are  admirably  drawn,  and  the  whole 
telling  of  the.  story  is  entertaining,  grateful  and  artistic.  We  regard  it  as  quite  as  good  as 
'  Donovan,' and  the  other  popular  stories  by  the  same  author." — BUFFALO  COMMERCIAL. 

"Miss  Bayly  has  kept  her  pages  clean  and  white.  The  book  is  preSminently  suitable 
to  the  shelves  of  a  circulating  library,  as  well  as  to  the  reading-table  under  the  family  lamp. 
It  not  only  entertains,  but  gives  historical  data  in  a  pleasantly  impressive  manner  .  .  . 
we  have,  notwithstanding  a  few  extravagances,  a  very  fascinating  story,  enlivened  by  the 
admitted  license  of  the  writer  of  romance." — HOME  JOURNAL,  NEW  YORK. 

"  This  latest  work  of  Miss  Bayly  has  all  the  qualities  which  have  won  her  popularity  in 
the  past.  The  book  should  have  a  considerable  vogue,  appealing,  as  it  does,  not  only  to 
those  who  like  quick  action,  plenty  of  adventure,  and  much  picturesqueness,  but  also  to 
those  who  have  a  cultivated  literary  palate." — DISPATCH,  RICHMOND,  VA. 

"...  is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  Edna  Lyall's  talent  for  telling  a  good  story 
in  engaging  style.  .  .  .  The  reader's  attention  is  held  throughout." 

— PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  There  is  much  in  this  book  to  commend  it.  It  is  original  and  has  great  activity. 
.  .  .  Miss  Lyall  possesses  literary  talent,  and  her  style  is  clear,  and,  to  one  unfamiliar 
with  her  writings,  ihis  latest  production  will  be  a  delightful  treat.  The  reader  will  put  it 
down  delighted  with  the  story,  refreshed  by  the  study  of  the  merits  and  faults  of  its  charac- 
ters, and  cogitating  upon  the  great  events  which,  during  the  making  of  English  history, 
followed  quickly  one  upon  another  toward  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century." 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  PIPTH  AVE.,  NEWTOEt. 


THE  DUKE 

A  NOVEL 

By  J.  STORER  CLOUSTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE  ' 


Crown  8vo,  $1.25 


"A  book  that  is  brimful  of  the  richest  quality  of  pure  Celtic  humor.  The  fic- 
titious duke  gets  into  any  number  of  scrapes,  all  of  them  laughable,  but  the  real 
duke  finds  himself  embarrassed  by  the  immediate  consequences,  and  is  forced  at 
last  to  reclaim  his  title  from  the  Irish  adventurer.  .  .  .  The  book,  after  keep- 
ing one  convulsed  for  two  hours  with  mingled  smiles  and  broad  laughter,  ends 
happily  and  up  to  the  standard  of  exacting  convention." 

— JOURNAL,  DETROIT,  MICH. 

"  It  is  cleverly  told  and  far  better  worth  attention  than  nine  out  of  ten  of  the 
serious  efforts  to  portray  human  life  and  character." 

—JOURNAL,  PROVIDENCE,  R.  I. 

"  It  is  a  well-written  tale  and  absorbingly  interesting." 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS,  LA. 

*'  One  of  the  most  attractive  books  of  the  season.  The  characters  are  well 
drawn,  and  there  is  a  kind  of  deuce-take-it  in  the  telling  of  the  story  that  con- 
duces much  to  the  excellence  of  the  story." — COURIER,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

' '  The  situation  is  intensely  comic  .  .  .  the  upshot  of  the  Duke  of  Gran- 
don's  experiment  is  not  only  genuinely  droll,  but  has  the  sentimental  interest 
which  we  suppose  is  indispensable  in  the  average  novel.  The  book  might  make 
a  laughable  play."— NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"  Mr.  Clouston  certainly  has  written  along  original  lines  in  his  newest  book. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Clouston's  story  is  interesting.  It  is  told  in  a  direct,  forcible  man- 
ner. The  manners  and  customs  of  the  English  people  of  the  time  are  pictured 
as  they  really  were.  His  principal  characters  are  real  flesh  and  blood  creatures, 
with  all  the  envy,  hatred  and  hero-worship  that  go  to  make  the  average  human 
being." — NEW  YORK  PRESS. 

1 '  The  story  is  most  ingenious,  well  told,  and  interesting,  and  the  humor  is 
not  too  strained. " — NEWS,  INDIANAPOLIS,  IND. 

"  A  most  entertaining  story  .  .  .  the  telling  of  the  story  is  so  bright  and 
original  that  the  interest  increases  on  each  page,  and  the  reader  is  kept  in  a  state 
of  wonderment  as  to  how  it  will  all  end.  .  .  .  There  are  few  novels  which 
are  so  entertaining  and  no  one  can  read  it  and  come  to  the  end  without  wishing 
that  Mr.  Clouston  had  made  it  a  little  longer."— SAN  FRANCISCO  BULLETIN. 

"  It  is  replete  with  humor  and  amusing  situations." — CHICAGO  POST. 

"  The  story  is  admirably  told  and  is  full  of  humor." 

—SAN  FRANCISCO  CHRONICLE. 

"A  brisk,  well  told,  vivacious  story." — BROOKLYN  TIMES. 

"The  style  is  so  brisk,  the  dialogue  so  crisp,  and  the  incidents  so  dramatic, 
that  the  book  contains  a  clever  and  amusing  comedy  ready  for  transfer  to  the 
stage.  It  is  an  amusing  novel,  which  anyone  may  read  with  pleasure." 

— CHRONICLE  TELEGRAPH,  PITTSBURG,  PA. 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,   &   CO.,  91-93   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


FIANDER'S  WIDOW 

By  M.  E.  FRANCIS  (Mrs.  FRANCIS  BLUNDELL) 
AUTHOR  OF  "THE  DUENNA  OF  A  GENIUS,"  "YEOMAN  FLEETWOOD,"  ETC 


Crown  8vo,  ornamental  cover,  $1.5O 


"Is  an  altogether  delightful  story.  ...  If  more  of  such  novels  were 
written,  pure,  wholesome  and  bracing,  redolent  of  everything  that  is  pleasant 
to  the  senses,  the  world  would  be  all  the  better." — BRISTOL  MERCURY. 

"  An  idyll  of  Dorsetshire  life,  as  natural  and  fresh  and  wholesome  as  the  old 
stone  dairy  in  which  some  of  the  scenes  take  place.  .  .  .  The  book  is  redo- 
lent of  the  charm  of  English  country  life,  pure  and  sweet,  as  it  were,  with  the 
scent  of  the  gorse  and  the  breath  of  the  kine,  of  all  things  that  are  wholesome 
and  homely  and  good. " — COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  NEW  YORK. 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  of  recently  published  works  of  fiction.  .  .  . 
The  plot  has  an  appetizing  freshness  about  it,  and  more  than  once  the  unexpected 
happens."— CHICAGO  EVENING  POST. 

"  Here  is  a  story  of  life  in  rural  England  well  worth  reading,  because  of  the 
curious  social  conditions  it  describes,  and  yet  these,  though  well  set  forth,  are 
only  incidental  to  the  main  theme,  which  is  a  delightful  study,  involving  much 
humor  and  no  tragedy,  of  the  belated  coming  of  love  to  an  earnest,  warm- 
hearted woman.  It  is  brightly,  lightly  done,  and  yet  holds  the  attention  and 
contains  sufficient  to  provoke  thought." — PUBLIC  LEDGER,  PHILA. 

"A  truly  delightful  bucolic  comedy.  The  theme  might  almost  be  called 
farcial,  but  the  treatment  is  delicate,  quaint  and  graceful.  Old  Isaac,  the  rustic 
bachelor  who  narrowly  escapes  matrimony  from  a  sense  of  duty,  is  a  Dorset- 
shire original  and  deserves  to  rank  with  the  best  rustics  of  Hardy,  Blackmore, 
and  Philpotts.  The  story  is  prettily  told  and  is  wholesomely  amusing.  Mrs. 
Blundell  is  always  careful  in  her  literary  workmanship  ;  this  tale  will  add  to  the 
popular  appreciation  of  her  work. " — OUTLOOK,  N.  Y. 

"An  altogether  charming  tale.  .  .  .  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it,  and 
there  are  continuous  pages  and  chapters  of  the  brightest  humor." 

— LIVING  CHURCH,  MILWAUKEE. 

"  A  beautiful  little  story.  One  is  at  a  loss  for  an  epithet  adequate  to  its 
charm,  its  simplicity,  its  humor,  its  truth." — BROOKLYN  EAGLE. 

"  A  bright  little  pastoral  comedy.  .  .  .  The  widow  is  a  rare  combination 
of  business  sense  and  sentiment,  a  combination  which  insures  her  both  prosper- 
ity and  happiness.  Reversing  the  usual  order  of  love  and  life  she  postpones 
romance  until  she  is  able  to  entertain  her  Prince  Charming  in  truly  royal  style. 
The  sly  efforts  of  one  Isaac  Sharpe  to  rid  himself  of  the  burden  of  matrimony 
are  genuinely  amusing."— PUBLIC  OPINION,  N.  Y. 


LONGMANS,   GREEN,   &   CO.,  91-93   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


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